


traveled all these miles just to get back home

by ghostdiddy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arya + Podrick are THE brotp and you can fight me on that, Arya Stark - Freeform, Arya and Her Expressive Eyebrows, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gendry Waters - Freeform, Gendrya - Freeform, Growing Up, I just want them to be happy, If you think this has a happy ending then you are correct, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jon Snow Looks Like He Constantly Has Elevator Music Playing In His Head And I Love Him For It, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Scars, Slow Burn, Swearing, You can pry this ship from my cold dead hands, because im selfish, because yes what Melisandre did to Gendry was not consensual kiss my ass, if D&D can do whatever they want then so can I, implied/referenced PTSD, pretty much just the tv series except im adding to it, season 8 is not correct so its my job to fix it, some gore, these kids have been through so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-01-23 10:04:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18547561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostdiddy/pseuds/ghostdiddy
Summary: Somewhere deep down, where echoes of the girl she used to be still lived, Arya knew it was unlikely they would survive what was to come. She knew even though she had finally gotten her home back, finally gottenhimback, they were living on borrowed time.But sometimes, he made it easy to forget that simple, inescapable fact.--Essentially going to start from the Very Beginning and fill in all the blanks. Because I Can. Will eventually turn into a fix it fic.





	1. The Wars To Come

**Author's Note:**

> New episodes got me emotional. Welcome to hell gang.

_"You will marry a high lord and rule his castle. And your sons shall be knights and princes and lords."_

_"No, that's not me."_

If only her father could see her now: hair shorn, covered in dirt and mud, dressed as a boy of all things. She didn't look anything like a girl, let alone a high born daughter of a family as ancient as House Stark. She wondered how Father would react. She wondered how _Sansa_ would react. 

But her father was dead. 

And Sansa... what was going to happen to Sansa?

_"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives."_

And Arya _was_ alone. Even with Yoren confidently leading the group of men North, even with the men and boys surrounding her, she was more alone than she had ever known to be possible. For a moment, she let her misery consume her. Her grief pulled at her throat and chest making it hard to breathe. Yoren had pulled her away before she could witness her father's execution, so she never truly saw it. But she heard it. She could hear it all now as if it was still happening: the roar of the crowd, growing and growing into a climax, until finally punctuated by the sound of a sword falling through the air. The sound of Illyn Payne's own sword finding a home in her father's neck; and above it all, Sansa's hysterical pleas echoing against the walls and parapets of the Great Sept. The crowd had loved the scene, eating it up like it was some sort of play, a great tragedy performed by starving actors on the streets of King's Landing. She could still hear their jeers, their roars of approval, their _hatred_ for her father. She remembered the crows watching from the roof of the Great Sept, how they took flight after her father died.

"Don't start falling behind yet, Arry. We're barely out of King's Landing."

Gendry's voice pulled her from her thoughts. He hadn't even turned around to see she had slowed down behind him, too lost in her anguish to pay attention.

"I'm not _falling behind_ ," Arya replied indignantly, her voice likely too high in pitch for any boy. She quickly scrubbed her filthy hands over her face, as if it would help erase her heartache from any prying eyes.

She couldn't see Gendry's face as he walked easily in front of her, but she heard his snort of amusement. Gendry couldn't be much older than her, barely a couple of years, yet he seemed to tower over her. _He must be about Jon's age._ His longer legs carried him forward much quicker than her own legs did, meaning she had to break into an awkward jog to catch up to him, her hands instinctively grasping at Needle on her hip. 

He didn't say anything else and neither did she as they continued North from King's Landing. It was much easier for Arya to walk with Gendry; Lommy and Hot Pie didn't eye Needle when she was beside him. 

She would have been quite happy to kill Hot Pie back in King's Landing when he tried to steal Needle, she probably would have if Gendry hadn't stepped in. 

_I'm good at killing fat boys. I_ like _killing fat boys._

The thought made her smile, despite everything that was happening. The fear in Hot Pie's eyes had been laughable, even more so when Gendry had stepped in. 

Gendry didn't much seem to care about the other men around him, nor did he pay much attention to Arya as they walked, rarely looking anywhere except the road ahead. This gave her time to quietly mourn her father's death. Arya pictured Ned's smiling face from the balconies above the Winterfell Courtyard, his words of wisdom as he attempted to guide her along her path. She remembered how he had hired Syrio Forel to teach her how to use her sword, to teach her to respect Needle for the weapon it was. She didn't cry, didn't throw herself to the ground and wail, but she allowed herself a few shaky breaths. She couldn't let any of the men around her see her suffering. 

"You never did tell me how you got that sword," Gendry stated after some time. By then, the sun was starting to get low in the sky, casting long shadows along the King's Road. Arya guessed they were going to stop soon. 

"I told you it was a gift," Arya retorted, "maybe you should have listened." She wasn't prepared for this, not for prying questions and questioning glances. Yoren and Arya had agreed on a name, and a basic backstory should she run into trouble, but everything else was left to her. She never was much of a liar, and Arya had never been good at dancing around the truth. She hoped if she was blunt enough she could stop Gendry from continuing to ask more questions. 

Gendry grinned down at her, "well there's no need to start getting fiesty, missing King's Landing already?"

"I'm not going to miss King's Landing," Arya muttered acidly, ignoring how the grin slid from Gendry's face. 

They didn't speak again until Yoren called for the group to start making camp. Arya followed Gendry as he left the group, who without a word began picking up sticks for firewood and placing them in Arya's arms. 

"Have you heard anything about dinner, or anything about food?" Arya was desperate to ignore the ache in her arms from the growing pile of firewood, which Gendry continued to add to as he spoke. 

"You know as much as I do, but I heard someone closer to the front of the line caught a rabbit. Maybe they'll be willing to share?" Gendry didn't seem concerned, and pointedly disregarded the look of discomfort on Arya's face.

Arya had never gone without food. At Winterfell, her meals were cooked for her three times a day, and there was always an abundance of food to be taken from the kitchens. It was much the same in King's Landing, except the food was prepared by cooks who were also cooking for nearly everyone else in the Red Keep, so they didn't have much time to cater to the desires of a visiting noble house. Even when travelling down the Kingsroad from Winterfell there had always been an abundance of food, as King Robert always seemed to be in the mood for a miniature banquet every time the train of carriages would make camp. She didn't like to think she was spoiled, but seeing Gendry's nonchalance regarding the lack of food acted as a monolithic reminder of her privileged upbringing. Arya wasn't sure if she had ever missed a meal, let alone not eaten for an entire day. 

Upon seeing the look of discomfort on Arya's face, Gendry stopped piling sticks in her arms. 

"Yoren has an entire cart full of food that he bought from King's Landing. Piss off back to camp with that firewood and see what's happening with that if you're so worried about your dinner."  
,  
Arya brusquely turned away with a huff, nearly dislodging some of the sticks she was trying to hold. 

_Stupid bull._

\--

It hadn't taken Gendry long to realise Arry wasn't really a boy. 

There was something about his hands. Gendry knew from the times he had helped Arry onto wagons and up slopes, grasping his hand and pulling him up with ease, that Arry had weirdly soft hands; hands that had been taken care of, hands that hadn't seen immensely hard work. At first, Gendry simply thought it meant Arry was lying about his status, wasn't actually some gutter rat lowborn. So he started to take more notice of the boy.

Arry was incredibly skinny, which wasn't unheard of for the majority of lowborns, yet his face was softer, rounder than most boys had. He heard Hot Pie say it when they were still in King's Landing, that Arry _"looks like a girl"_ , and in certain lights, Gendry couldn't help but agree. Then again, many boys resembled girls at that age with their high voices, clear faces and narrow shoulders. 

Then, there was the fact that Arry always left the group to take a piss in private. 

There was the fact that Arry became uncomfortable when the other men would talk about women, about fucking them, and would regularly leave when the subject arose.

There was the fact that everything about Arry was feminine if he looked closely enough, except for his hair and clothes. 

When Arry donned his new coat for the first time, he bucked his belt around his waist much higher than men typically would. It accentuated his waist and gave him a more feminine figure as he walked, and Arry did it without thinking, without hesitation, as if it was normal for him to dress that way. As if he had been taught to dress like that. Arry didn't really have any curves, she was still too young and too skinny, but the way she wore her boy clothes was enough to convince Gendry.

So it was no longer a question about whether or not Arry was a boy, but rather a question as to why a girl was attempting to join the Night's Watch. Was she running from something, or someone? Was it because of the castle forged blade at her hip? Had she actually stolen it? All these questions proved too much for Gendry, so he decided to ignore it. If no one had worked it out, he would remain silent on the matter until it became important. 

\--

Many days passed in much the same fashion. Arya and Gendry walking further and further North in companionable silence, with the occasional observation or mild bickering. Sometimes, a ruthless, albeit pointless, debate would ensue between Arya, Hot Pie, Lommy and every so often Gendry. It reminded her of how Sansa would tease her growing up, and in return Arya would tease her right back, pull her hair and put spiders in her bed. Arya started to appreciate Hot Pie and Lommy, despite their stupidity and when they had tried to take Needle. She learned more about Gendry as well. He was an armourer's apprentice and, like Jon, was a bastard. He was incredibly stubborn, and incredibly proud of his stupid bull helm that he would sometimes polish before he went to sleep. She took some comfort in the familiarity that was beginning to grow between her and the boys around her, even some of the other men travelling North. In many ways, it reminded her of her own family, or what remained of it. 

She never slept properly. Every time she closed her eyes and attempted sleep, she saw all of them on the steps of the Great Sept. It was enough to keep Arya awake through the majority of the night, finally falling into a dreamless sleep just before the dawn, only to be roused shortly afterwards to continue the march North. She did her best to not think about them, but in the stillness of the night, when her thoughts were her own, she was unable to avoid thinking of the family she had lost and left behind.

Arya stopped counting the days, instead marking their progress by the steadily dropping temperature in the air as they went further and further North. When Yoren gave her a coat to wear over her boy clothes, she took it with great gratitude. Arya was quickly learning that in the world outside of the great houses and castles of Westeros, to give someone a gift without expecting anything in return was a great deal. To give something, it also meant to lose something. It made Arya appreciate Jon's gift of Needle all the more, even if Jon didn't make it himself. 

She had finally started to grow more comfortable, much of her earlier paranoia had long disappeared as all the other men and boys around her accepted that Arry was in fact a boy, when finally the Gold Cloaks caught up to the group. 

_"They're looking for me."_

Gendry's look of surprise was expected, but the flash of understanding in his eyes nearly threw her onto the ground. There was no chance to further elaborate as the Gold Cloaks announced Gendry's warrant. 

Suddenly, the march North became much grimmer. The men avoided Gendry, spoke in hushed whispers behind his back. It filled Arya with ill concealed rage. She let herself pick petty fights with Hot Pie and Lommy, taking out her frustration on the two boys that didn't know any better. 

They were down near the river bed, washing the pots and pans from breakfast as Gendry collected water. As Gendry walked away, Lommy and Hot Pie started whispering to eachother, just loud enough for Arya to hear also. 

"... I say we yield. Gendry's the one they want."

"Don't want to get caught in no battle,' Lommy bobbed his head in agreement, his thick Flea Bottom accent slurring his words slightly. 

Arya felt that same rage start to stir in her gut again. Cowards, waiting until Gendry's left to start talking about him. 

"I ain't afraid of no battle,' Hot Pie announced, even though Arya doubted Hot Pie had ever seen an actual battle. Before they could continue, Arya interjected, the same rage that Septa Mordane had criticised rising to the surface. 

"If you got within a mile of a battle, you'd fill your pants," she interrupted. Arya had heard Rob once say the exact same to Jon, as the pair, as well as Theon, had spent the entire night discretely filling their cups with wine. At the time, Rob had been showing off to Jeyne Pool, who sat across from them next to Sansa. But now, Arya repeated his words in an attempt to emulate her older brother, to demand the same respect Rob did where ever he went.

Clearly affronted, Hot Pie began defending himself. 

"I've seen lots of battles! I saw-" "Liar," Arya cut him off again as she turned back to the pan she was scrubbing. She enjoyed the way his voice rose just slightly in pitch as he continued to defend himself. 

"I saw a man kill another man just outside a tavern in Flea Bottom. Stabbed him right in the neck,' Hot Pie concluded triumphantly, as if he had singlehandedly derailed Arya's entire argument. For a moment, Arya was reminded of Sansa when they were having an argument. The brief reminder of her sister stopped any of the words she was about to say freeze in her throat, allowing Lommy to comment for her. 

"Two men fighting isn't a battle,' Lommy pointed out. 

"Well, they had armour on," Hot Pie continued. Arya found herself tuning them out as her thoughts began straying back to her family, until she saw Gendry walking back to the stream to refill his water bucket. 

"Gendry's an armourer's apprentice," Arya told the two, stopping their discussion for a brief moment. At the mention of his name, Gendry looked up towards her, stopping his work. 

"Hot Pie, tell Gendry what makes a fight into a battle."

For a moment, Hot Pie almost looked like he was afraid to answer. Gendry stood and waited expectantly, still frozen in place. 

Arya allowed herself to drift away from the conversation, let it run it's own course, satisfied with her work. She couldn't help the smirk that arose when she heard Gendry harshly explain to Hot Pie that "any idiot can buy armour." She glanced nonchalantly over towards Gendry, briefly catching his eye. 

Gendry ended the conversation and began walking away, but Arya couldn't help her curiosity get the better of her. Stirred on by Hot Pie and Lommy's earlier conversation regarding Gendry, she followed him. 

"What did the Gold Cloaks want with you?" Arya asked, carefully picking her way up the slope after Gendry. 

"No idea," Gendry sighed, already disinterested with continuing the conversation. Arya wondered how many times he had been asked this, how many times he had given the same answer. Surely he would have some idea?

"You're a liar," Arya tried again, hoping for the slightest clue. 

"You know, you shouldn't insult people that are bigger than you." He still hadn't turned to her, all but ignoring her efforts. She began to feel frustrated again. Arya wasn't used to being brushed off so easily. Normally, whenever she had something to say, people had to listen because of her father, because of her house, because she was a highborn. Ever since she had become Arry, no one payed her any attention any more. 

_That's because everyone that cared about you is either far away or dead._

"Then I wouldn't get to insult anyone, would I?" Arya followed him, despite his clearly growing annoyance. 

"I don't care what any of them want," Gendry told her, his voice growing quieter. "No good's ever come of their questions."

That small comment was enough to re-energise Arya in her quest to understand this boy, why the Gold Cloaks could possibly be looking for someone like Gendry. 

"No good's ever come?" Arya rushed after him, nearly tripping on a tree root in her haste. "Who asked questions before?"

"How can someone so small be such a pain in my arse?" Gendry huffed, obviously trying to steer the conversation away from himself. But Arya persisted, too caught up in what Gendry was saying to pay attention to his insult.

"Who asked questions?" Suddenly, what Gendry was saying became very important to Arya. It almost felt linked to her own escape from King's Landing-

"The Hand of the King- _Hands_ of the King. Lord Arryn came first a few weeks before he died," Arya had frozen in her place, terrified by what Gendry was about to reveal, "and then Lord Stark came a few weeks before he died."

At the mention of her Father, Arya nearly fell over with memories of Ned's smile, his laugh, his concern for her safety... his eventual execution. She saw them then, her sister begging with Joffrey, her Father being forced to his knees before- 

"Lord Stark," Arya repeated softly like a prayer. Her Father had visited Gendry before he died. 

"See? Asking me questions is bad luck. You'll probably be dead soon," Gendry attempted to joke with her, but didn't notice the wave of grief that was suddenly threatening to overcome Arya. 

As if it would help her to understand her Father's death, Arya nearly pleaded with Gendry to tell her what he had talked about with Ned. He briefly tolerated it, before finally asking, "What about you anyway? You thought they were after you. Did you kill someone, or is it just because you're a girl?'

Panic overtook her then as she desperately tried to maintain her identity, "The Night's Watch doesn't take girls, everyone knows that."

"Yeah, that's true," Gendry said as he walked away from her, seemingly relieved the conversation was no longer focused on him, "but you're still a girl."

"I am not-" "Yeah? Well pull your cock out and take a piss then."

Grappling for even the slightest excuse, Arya pushed her chin out and looked Gendry square in the eyes, desperately trying to push down her panic and her fear and her instinct to _run run run._

"I don't need to take a piss."

With a satisfied grunt, Gendry turned away from her. _He didn't believe her._

But Gendry wasn't like the others. He wasn't the type to tell all the men around them that she was a girl. He knew the type of men they were travelling with. Arya realised in that quiet moment, the moment before she told him everything, that she trusted this boy. Gendry, who defended her when he didn't know her, helped her along the King's Road when her feet were too sore to walk much further, who had never tried to take Needle, or forced her to say or do anything she didn't want to do. 

"My real name's not Arry, it's Arya, of House Stark."

Gendry paused, then slowly turned to look to her, his mouth falling slightly open in disbelief. 

"Yoren is taking me home to Winterfell," Arya finished, never taking her eyes off of him. She trusted Gendry, but a small part of her still expected him to yell to the entire camp what she had just revealed to him. 

"He was your father... the Hand, _the traitor."_

"He was never a traitor, Joffrey is a _liar."_

He was still looking at her with that stupid face, completely shocked by what she was revealing. Then again, she couldn't blame him. Arya had just revealed that she was a _highborn_ , someone technically far above him in any social standing, yet she was covered in mud and dirt and her short hair was falling into her eyes. Arya was sure that even her own mother would struggle to recognise her right now. 

"So you're a highborn then, you're a lady," Gendry murmured in disbelief, his eyes growing impossibly wide. 

"No. I mean yes," Arya struggled. She wasn't prepared for any of this. 

"My mother was a lady, and my sister-"

"But you were a Lord's daughter and you lived in a castle and-" Gendry cut himself off, suddenly looking terrified. 

"Look, all that about cocks I shouldn't have said anything and I- I've been pissing in front of you and everything." Gendry's voice was getting louder and louder as everything dawned on him, and much to Arya's horror, he looked her in the eyes and announced loud enough the entire camp probably heard, _"I should be calling you m'lady."_

"Do _not_ call me m'lady," Arya hissed, desperate for him to just _shut up._

Something changed on his face then, he almost seemed to smile as he bowed his head and announced, "as m'lady commands."

Arya pushed him then, desperate to make him stop talking, but he took it as a joke, a full blown grin began growing on his face. 

"Well that wasn't very ladylike."

She pushed him in the chest again, _hard._ So hard that Septa Mordane would have fainted in terror. Gendry toppled to the ground, the smile never leaving his face. 

Arya rushed away, too flustered to pay attention to his laughter.

 

\--

 

They were deep in the Riverlands by the time the Gold Cloaks found them again. 

Gendry had been on the verge of sleep when he heard loud thudding footstep enter the barn they were sleeping in. He knew Arya was still awake, she almost always was, still polishing her little sword to distract her from her thoughts. Gendry was a deep sleeper from years of living in a forge, and he almost always fell asleep straight away. But on the rare nights when sleep evaded him, Gendry found himself watching Arya as she sat, polishing Needle and looking off into the distance, her eyes far too haunted for anyone her age. He wondered what she thought about, what she saw in the darkness of the night that stopped her from sleeping. 

His eyes remained closed as he listened to Arya's small, sad voice carry through the barn. She was talking to Yoren about her father's execution, her voice on the verge of breaking on every single word. 

Gendry hadn't seen the execution, but he had heard about it. Though he had never had a father, never had a family to call his own, his heart ached for the poor girl, who had witnessed her own father's execution. 

"I close my eyes and I see them up there," Arya whispered to Yoren, her voice shaking with raw emotion. 

Gendry didn't want to listen to much more. He hated sad stories like this. And Arya's story was enough to near break his heart. He always felt the need to protect this girl. She was too small, too young, to be out in the world, fending for herself. This fiesty, angry, bitter girl had been thrown into the real world with no preparation and without understanding why. Just like him. Hearing Arya speak with such sadness, such _sorrow_ , it almost caused him physical pain, because he couldn't protect this girl from her own sadness. 

He didn't have much more time to thing about it, as war horns blew somewhere close by, and they could only mean one thing. 

_"Ho! Get up you lazy sons of whores! Arm yourselves!"_

Gendry looked over at Arya before he hastily pulled himself up. She was still crouched in the same position as before, still holding onto Needle, her eyes wide in fear. 

_"There's men out there who want to fuck your corpses! Outside, now!"_

Gendry and Arya stayed back, out of sight as Yoren had told them to. But upon seeing one of those Gold Cloak bastards drive a blade through Yoren's back, Gendry couldn't hold himself back anymore. He rushed into the clearing, ready to fight. Gendry heard Arya's light foot falls behind him, then she easily overtook him as she sprinted into the heat of the battle, eyes ablaze as they reflected the lights from the fires that were burning. 

The fight had been quick, Gendry hadn't even been able to get many hits in before he was restrained by Lannister soldiers. Not too far away, he saw one of the soldiers towering over Arya where she had fallen. Gendry looked on, feeling sick to his stomach as the soldier leant over her and pulled Needle from Arya's belt, her cries of protest echoing through the night. She was pulled to her feet and pushed towards the rest of the group, eventually stopping beside him. 

That's when the soldiers saw Lommy. 

Poor Lommy, with his loud mouth and stupid words. Out of the corner of his eye, Gendry saw Arya lean foward slightly, listening to every single word the soldier spoke to Lommy, her eyes not blinking, even as Needle was pushed through Lommy's throat, and Lommy choked on his own blood.

_"We're looking for a bastard named Gendry! Give him up or I'll start taking eyeballs."_

Arya shifted beside him, but he didn't dare look. He waited for one of the men to push him forward to the Lannister soldiers, to give him away to save the rest of them. Gendry kept his eyes to the ground, waiting for one of them to do the inevitable; he was too scared to do it himself. 

Then, "You want Gendry?" Arya piped up beside him. His heart stopped in his chest, looking down at the girl he thought he could trust, the girl he thought was his _friend._ But she wasn't looking at him, her eyes were trained on Lommy. 

"You already got him," she said, her voice unwavering. 

Gendry followed her eyes and saw lying next to Lommy's hands, his own Bull Helm. Lommy had tried to take it in the confusion of the fight. Gendry looked back to Arya then, positively stunned by her outright lie; none of the men around them seemed to have the guts to call her out on it. This ruthless, ferocious, _brave_ girl may have just saved his life.


	2. Valar Morghulis

Gendry was awake the first time Arya spoke her list. 

Despite the torrential rain, the muddy puddle he was sitting in, and the malignant darkness, Gendry heard her as clear as if she was whispering right into his ear. Despite the horrors that were happening next door, the bodies strewn out in the courtyard and above the barracks, it seemed as if Arya was finally able to sleep. She would say the names over and over again to herself, her arms wrapped around her sides to offer some protection against the rain and the cold, until she slowly drifted off to sleep. 

Gendry wasn't very religious. He knew the Seven, just as he knew the Old Gods, but he had never prayed. Never stepped foot in the Great Sept or any of the other temples around King's Landing, never asked for a blessing, nor had he received one. But Arya's list was closer to a prayer than any of the sermons he had heard on the streets, any of the prayers the men around him would sometimes say. He wasn't an idiot, Gendry had heard Yoren telling Arya about his own list, how he had said the name of his brother's killer before he went to sleep every night to remember. The names Arya spoke were the names of the people she wanted to kill. The thought of Arya killing The Queen brought a smile to his face everytime he heard her list. 

When Gendry was picked by the Lannister soldiers to be interrogated, he couldn't help but to look to Arya, probably for one final time. Her wide, terrified eyes followed him as he was pulled away. The both of them knew what was going to happen next. 

As he was pushed onto the infamous chair, his arms, neck and ankles strapped down, he saw Arya edging towards a hole in the wall to watch, just as she watched all the interrogations. 

He never thought that of all the people in Westeros, it would be Tywin Lannister that would save him. 

 

\--

 

_"I need a new cup bearer."_

The words alone had shaken Gendry to his very core, more so than the bucket of rats strapped to his chest. Tywin Lannister, the head of the family that was responsible for Ned Stark's death, now unknowingly had the youngest Stark daughter in his service. He knew the Queen was searching all of King's Landing for Arya, having witnessed some of the searches through the streets of Flea Bottom himself. If Tywin discovered Arya...

Gendry shook his head, as if it would help rid his head of the terrible thoughts he was having.

Sometimes, when Arya was given a brief reprieve from her service to Tywin, she would come and watch Gendry work in the courtyards. Sometimes they would talk, but mostly Gendry would work hammering steel into shape for armour and forging weapons in silence, and Arya would watch him, observing him like she was trying to figure something out. 

_"You should stand sideface."_

Gendry had been swinging a newly forged sword to test it's balance, but her words stopped him. 

"Sideface?" He had never heard anyone use that term before. 

Arya took a breath, her head shifting slightly so Gendry wouldn't see her rolling her eyes at him. "Sideways," she explained, as if it was the simplest concept in the world. 

He looked hard at her then, trying to decide whether she was messing with him. Her hair had gotten longer in the short few months they had been on the road, it fell into her eyes and sometimes she would blow it away so she could still see. She was still the same grimy, angry girl he had met in King's Landing, except she seemed more comfortable now that it had been revealed to everyone she was a girl. 

"Why?" 

"Smaller target," Arya remarked as she took another bite from her apple, watching him from under the dark waves of hair falling past her eyebrows. 

"Am I fighting someone?" he asked, swinging around as if to prove his point. When he turned back, Arya was still watching him, but her eyes had ducked down from his face to his chest.

"You're practising for a fight," she told him, her eyes slowly drifting back up to look him square in the eyes, _"you should practise right."_

They glared at eachother then. What did Arya know about swordfighting? Sometimes on the King's Road, when sleep had evaded her and Gendry would be stacking wood on the fire he had built, she would tell him things, small things, to fill in the silence of the night. She would talk about Winterfell, her sister and brothers, how she got Needle. Arya would gaze into the flames but not truly see them, her voice softer than he had ever heard, and she would talk about the ghosts that haunted her. She didn't talk about her Father, about the people she had lost, rather she seemed to only want to talk about the people that were still alive, the people Arya wished she could force to appear in front of her simply by talking about them. On these nights, Gendry would listen, watching as the flames would dance on her unseeing eyes, and he would learn new things about this strange girl that the world had cast a bitter eye upon. But she had never mentioned any swordfighting. He wondered if she had done that on purpose. 

Arya finally looked away then, right as a woman started screaming from across the courtyard. The Tickler had fallen, but he wasn't the first. 

 

\--

 

Gendry knew something was wrong when Arya came running towards him and Hot Pie, her eyebrows scrunched together in her agitation. She was shaking, something Gendry had never seen Arya do before. It was enough that Gendry completely stopped his work to listen as she frantically asked where Jaqen was. 

"How would I know?" Gendry said, turning back to his work when he decided the situation wasn't too dire. 

"I need him now," Arya hissed, "Lord Tywin is marching _tonight"_

"You _need_ him," Gendry repeated, suddenly suspicious. What in Seven Hells was going on?

"He's helping me," Arya replied curtly, as if it was so simple. 

Arya sprinted away not long after that, still frantically looking for any sign of the strange, older man. 

"What do you reckon that was about?" Hot Pie asked, rubbing at his ears, clearly upset. 

"I have no idea," Gendry murmured as he watched Arya leave. Something wasn't right. 

It wasn't until later that night that Gendry realised how strange his life had gotten, as Arya shook him awake, half whispering, half shouting that they needed to leave Harrenhall right away. 

"What do you mean? What's happened?" Gendry was fully awake now, and not just because of the strange things Arya was saying. If anyone came into the Forge right then, they would have seen Arya with him and gotten... _ideas._

"You can't be in here Arya," Gendry whispered hoarsely, trying to make her understand. 

"I made a deal with Jaqen," Arya interrupted, not paying attention to anything that Gendry was saying. "If you want to leave Harrenhall, you need to get up _now."_

_She can't be serious_ , Gendry thought as he looked at her, barely able to see her in the darkness of the dormant forges. He realised then that this was the closest he had ever been to Arya. It was the closest he had been to nearly _any_ girl. 

"Okay," Gendry decided aloud, his voice much louder than he had anticipated. In the darkness, he could barely see Arya nod her head in approval. 

"I need to go get Hot Pie from the kitchens. Get whatever you need and meet us down near the West gate _as soon as you can,_ we don't have long."

Then she disappeared, barely making a noise as she left. Gendry briefly considered going back to sleep, staying in his bed and allowing himself to believe that Arya's visit had been a product of his imagination. He slowly pulled himself up, shaking his head to try and rid himself of any remaining drowsiness. If Arya was going to go and do something stupid, he had to make sure he was awake enough to make sure she didn't get killed in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm trying to distract myself from the massacre that 8-03 is going to be by writing this. Im terrified for my kids yo.
> 
> Thanks again for your lovely comments and kudos. Ya'll are the spring to the winter of my heart.


	3. The Ones She Had Lost and The Ones She Had Found

In the shadows of the melted spires of Harrenhal, Gendry, Arya and Hot Pie crouched in the darkness, waiting. 

_"A girl and her friends will walk through the gate at midnight."_

Gendry kept shifting beside her. Arya could feel his anxiety pouring off of him, turning the air sour and making it harder to think. It reminded her of Mycah when she had asked him to practice sword play with her. 

_But this wasn't going to end up like the King's Road. Stupid Joffrey isn't here to ruin it._

"What did he want us to do about those guards?" Gendry asked, barely suppressing how nervous he was. Arya had to admit, Gendry raised a very valid concern. It had to be about midnight, yet the gate was still manned by at least a dozen guards. 

"He didn't say," Arya returned, not taking her eyes off the gate. Gendry's nerves had begun to wear off on her. "He just said 'walk through the gates', he didn't say anything about the guards."

"What, he left that bit out? It's a pretty important part, don't you think?" Gendry was starting to lose his nerve. Arya knew the boy trusted her, trusted her enough to follow her to the gates, he just had to trust her enough to get them _through_ those gates. 

"We have to trust him," Arya said quietly. The guards hadn't moved nearly the entire time they had been there. Hot Pie started talking about turning back and Gendry was muttering to her about being stupid. _Trust me_

"Stay here if you're afraid," Arya told them, no longer fearful of the guards hearing her. She stood to her full height and began striding towards the gate, despite Hot Pie calling out to her and Gendry's hand grabbing hold of her sleeve before she yanked it free. 

The guards still didn't move as she edged closer towards the gates. Gendry's heavy footfalls were loud behind her as he ran to catch up to walk right behind her, protecting her back despite his obvious fear. As they moved closer and closer, Arya saw why the guards weren't moving, the blood that poured down around their ankles and pooled around the barracks. She couldn't look away, didn't _want_ to look away. 

_How could one man do this without raising any suspicion?_

Arya almost felt envious. 

It was a bit past midnight when Arya and Gendry walked out of the gates of Harrenhal together, with Hot Pie struggling to keep up behind them. 

 

\--

 

"What do you reckon they're talking about up there?" Hot Pie asked, plonking himself down to take off his boots, gesturing up the road where Arya had disappeared to talk to Jaqen.

The sun had risen only a couple of hours ago, lighting up the landscape around them, yet Arya and Jaqen were nowhere to be seen up ahead. Gendry was pacing back and forth, half out of impatience and half out of concern. They weren't far enough away from Harrenhal yet to start making stops. 

"How would I know that, Hot Pie?"

Gendry didn't like this Jaqen H'ghar, didn't trust him. There was something off about him, something about him that set off the instinct in Gendry to avoid this man at all costs. 

"Thought Arry told you everything," Hot Pie noted, tipping rocks and water from his boots. 

"What makes you say that?" Gendry turned away from the road then to look at Hot Pie, who began looking increasingly sheepish. 

"Dunno," Hot Pie told him with a shrug, "Arry likes talking, doesn't stop really, especially when she's talking to you."

With a shake of his head, Gendry turned back to the road right as Arya reappeared, carrying something carefully in both her hands. Jaqen wasn't with her.

"Nah, she doesn't really tell me everything."

Hot Pie perked up as Arya approached, but didn't start putting his boots back on. 

"What's that you got there, Arry?" 

Arya was still looking down at what was in her hands. She slowly closed her hands around it and put it into her pocket. She looked up at them both with that strange look in her eye, the same one she had right before she had walked out of the Harrenhal gates. 

"A gift," she told them, her voice low. 

 

\--

 

Slowly, they made their way North through the Riverlands. The food that Hot Pie had stolen from the Harrenhal kitchens was dwindling quickly, even with the three of them heavily rationing it out. They had walked less than a day before they encountered burly woodland, and deep in the forest, away from the prying eyes and ears of others, it became easy to become complacent. To forget they were on the run. 

They started lighting fires to cook some of the food from the Harrenhal kitchens and to keep warm. They stopped staying awake and keeping watch, falling asleep whenever they pleased. It was on one of these nights, next to a dying fire, that Arya sat picking at her fingers. Ever since she had lost Needle, it had become hard to sleep again. Listing the names helped send her off, but she had become so accustomed to cleaning Needle every night that not doing so now felt _wrong._ Like she had set out to go and do something but had the nagging feeling she had left something behind along the way. 

"How long do you think it's been since we left King's Landing," Arya asked the darkness, knowing full well that Gendry would reply. 

"Couple of months," came Gendry's groggy answer, "maybe half a year? Probably a bit more than that actually."

Arya nodded slightly and didn't reply. That meant it had been more than six months since she had seen Sansa and her Father, and almost double that since she had last seen Jon, Rob, Rickon and her Mother. 

"Why?" Gendry asked, stirring up off the ground to look at her in the dying light. Arya always had looked softer by firelight. During the day, she was this angry, ruthless girl that was desperate to get back home. In the light of the sun, Arya could be brave, she could be tough, she could be whatever she had to be if it meant she would see her family again. But in the suffocating darkness of the night, when the only thing that held it at bay was firelight, Arya suddenly seemed much younger, like the young girl that she actually was. Arya let her walls come down at night, let herself remember the things she forced herself to forget during the day. It was during these quiet moments, when the wind didn't howl and the stars were clear in the sky, that the firelight revealed to Gendry who this girl really was. Gendry let himself forget that he was a lowborn during these moments, and Arya a highborn, and allowed himself to bask in the warmth of the fire and the softness of her eyes. In the darkness of the night, she wasn't a lady, and he wasn't a gutter rat from the Street of Steel, they were just two friends, equals, seeking solace against the terrors of the world they lived in. 

"It's been more than a year since I left Winterfell," Arya whispered to the darkness, not expecting a reply this time. It hadn't felt real until now. But now she had said it, it was a reality. Arya hadn't realised how far away she was from everything she had ever known until that moment, somewhere deep in the Riverlands. The staggering reality of the situation caused a few small tears to start burning in her eyes. 

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

Arya was alone again. 

"What's Winterfell like?" Gendry asked softly. Before this, he had never left King's Landing. He had never known anything beyond it's filthy streets and it's towering walls and spires. Gendry had never thought he would leave, there was no reason to when there were plenty of smithys he could work in throughout King's Landing. He had never even gone to a library to read about other places. That was, of course, because he couldn't read. He'd never had a reason to learn. 

But Arya was hurting, that much was clear, even in the diminishing light. 

_"Arry likes talking, doesn't stop really, especially when she's talking to you."_

"Winterfell is.." Arya began before she trailed off, trying to find the right words. "Winterfell is different from anything you'll see around here."

Gendry propped himself up on his elbows then, suddenly interested in the place that Arya called home. 

"The North is cold, sometimes terribly so, but it's always warm in Winterfell. Father explained it to me once. Water is pumped up from hot springs, deep down below Winterfell, and pumped through the walls like blood in a living beast...." Arya trailed off again, the smallest of smiles growing on her face. 

"It snows sometimes, even if it's Summer. The snow gets bloody everywhere, but I think Winterfell has never looked prettier than it does covered in snow. I'd love to see it in Winter some day. Winterfell is _loud,_ but nowhere near as loud as King's Landing. It doesn't stink like shit either."

Gendry couldn't help but chuckle with her, closing his eyes as he listened.

"The only real quiet place in Winterfell is the Godswood. My brothers and I used to go the Godswood to play some afternoons. Sansa came with us once, and she tripped on one of the roots of the Heart Tree. I had laughed at her then, which made her cry, which made me laugh even more."

Arya started growing sad again as she thought of her sister, still being held in King's Landing. What had happened to Sansa in the months since Arya had escaped?

"The stones of the castle are dark, but not ugly like the stones in Harrenhal, but also not bright like the stone used for the Red Keep. Every hallway is lit by candles, and every room has at least one hearth. The corridors are long, and every room has more than enough space for everyone. I used to think that the main tower of Winterfell was the biggest thing in the world before I left. Then I came to King's Landing and saw the great gates, the Sept of Baelor and the Red Keep and I realised just how small Winterfell was in comparison to the rest of the world. But that doesn't mean it's worse than other places. It's better than everywhere else because it's my home."

Arya continued describing Winterfell to Gendry, who hung onto every word. She described the forges and the crypt, the courtyards and the halls down to the most minute details deep into the night, until the fire had died down low and night's embrace carried the two into a deep sleep. 

 

\--

 

The three of them had become complacent. _Too complacent._

Arya didn't realise how stupid they had been until the Brotherhood started firing arrows at them. Stupid.

She realised how stupid they were when they accepted a free meal from the Brotherhood, only for _the Bloody Hound_ to recognise her. _Stupid._ If Jon had been around, he would have laughed at her.

But Gendry hadn't seemed to realise. If anything, it seemed like Gendry _wanted_ to help the Brotherhood, reshaping a piece of old armor to fit Thoros despite her protests. 

Arya's anger was soon forgotten, however, when Hot Pie revealed he intended to stay at the Inn as a baker. Arya had thought of Hot Pie as a bully for so long, it was almost bittersweet that he had to leave right when she had begun to consider him as one of her friends. It hurt her more than she was willing to admit, but she understood why he couldn't go with them. Hot Pie had struggled over the past couple of weeks, with the death of Lommy, the terrible conditions at Harrenhal and the gruelling trek through the Riverlands with a dwindling supply of food. Hot Pie was safer in a place like this, a place with a roof and an offer to fill his gut with food. 

She had turned one last time to say goodbye, to thank him for the Direwolf bread, and was met with one of Hot Pie's huge smiles that took up all of his face. 

Arya hoped it wasn't the last time she would see that boy. 

 

\--

 

Gendry knew a lot of Arya's emotions. He had seen her happy, laughing with her face turned to the sun. He had seen her sad, her teary eyes reflecting the light of countless campfires. He had seen her angry, embarrassed, annoyed, disgusted and surprised. But in all the months he had known her, Gendry had never seen Arya look and act completely and utterly _murderous._.

Before his Trial by Combat, The Hound had taunted the Brotherhood and Arya. Gendry had stepped forward slightly, ready to stop her from volunteering to fight The Hound as her expression grew more and more furious. She had screamed along with the rest of the Brotherhood, encouraging Dondarrion to kill The Hound. But when Dondarrion fell, and Thoros threw himself over his corpse muttering prayers and incantations, Gendry hadn't expected Arya to lunge at The Hound. 

She had thrashed in his grip as Gendry caught her and tackled her to the ground, yelling and screaming obscenities as she threatened both The Hound and Gendry. But he held onto her, fearful of what might happen if he lost his grip on Arya. As Dondarrion rose, Arya completely stilled in his grasp, too shocked to remember her own wrath. 

As the Brotherhood began pulling Dondarrion away, and The Hound began to collect himself, Gendry still held onto Arya, worried she would lunge for The Hound again when he let go. 

"You can let go of me now," Arya murmured. She sounded tired, more tired than he had ever heard her. She had gone lax in his arms, as soft and malleable as warm candle wax. But warm candle wax could still be hot enough to burn, so he continued holding onto her, too suspicious to let go just yet. 

"You're not gonna try and stab The Hound again, are you M'Lady?" He asked, trying to ease the tension with the nickname she so desperately hated. He slowly eased his grip on her, but neither of them moved. 

"Don't call me that," Arya said, barely audible as she lazily pushed at one of his arms. He let her go and watched as she slowly pulled herself off the ground. She turned and offered him one of her hands to help him up and he gladly accepted it. 

 

\--

 

"What are you doing?"

Arya's voice made Gendry jump and lose his concentration. He hadn't heard her approach, she always had been good at sneaking up on people, especially him. Her hair was longer now, and she had to brush it off her face so she could properly see. She had washed at some point, her hair no longer full of grime, her face clean of any dirt, and with her hair pushed away, he finally was able to properly look at Arya's face as a whole. The soft light of the torches cast a orange glow on her skin and hair, and Gendry decided she was almost pretty, in an Arya type of way. She wasn't beautiful or elegant, like some of the ladies in King's Landing with their gowns of silk and delicately curled hair, nor was she alluring, like the tavern wenches that men in King's Landing would dream about. No, she was growing into a true Northern Beauty, with dark eyes and hair, skin that was pale and lovely, and a soft, rounded chin that emphasised the shape of her mouth. No, she wasn't gorgeous, but in the light of the hidden Brotherhood cave, Gendry decided that Arya was going to one day be nothing short of splendid. 

He looked between the armour in his hands and Arya, "Just, mending Lord Beric's armour," he told her truthfully, starting to grow sheepish. He knew what Arya would think. 

"Why?" Arya was apprehensive enough, but seeing Gendry fixing armour for the Brotherhood sparked a flame of outrage in her chest. 

_The Brotherhood just let The Hound go for no reason and now-_

"I'm going to stay on and smith for The Brotherhood." Gendry's voice was gentle yet firm, and it rocked Arya to her very foundations. 

"Have you lost your mind?" Arya nearly shouted, "when the Lannisters find this place, you think they'll spare the smiths? They'll cave your head in with your own helmet-"

"The Lannisters wanted to kill me long before I joined the Brotherhood," Gendry told her, not wanting to argue about this. They argued about a lot of things, but for the first time since he had known her, Arya had started tearing up at his words. 

"You don't have to do this," Arya quietly disclosed to him, her eyes searching for any hesitation in his eyes but finding none. 

"I want to," Gendry replied just as carefully. Arya had already lost so much, and Gendry knew what he was doing by leaving her for the Brotherhood. But this is what he was supposed to do. He had no place in the North, no place next to a Lady of Winterfell. He didn't want any place serving under yet another high born. "They need good men," Gendry tried to explain, as if it would help ease her heartbreak. 

"Rob needs good men too!" Arya tried, her voice rising in desperation. "We're leaving tommorow, and then-" 

"What? Serve him? I've served men my entire life." Gendry's voice remained careful, soft yet heartbreaking. Gendry never was a major talker, so hearing him say so many words at once startled Arya into silence as his gruff, Flea Bottom accent echoed through the cave. 

"I served Master Mott at King's Landing and he sold me to the Watch. I served Lord Tywin at Harrenhal, wondering every day whether I would get tortured or killed," Gendry broke off then, looking at Arya's dark eyes as they darkened even further under her tears. "I'm done serving."

"You just said you were serving Lord Berric," Arya tried, her voice as broken and as sad as the nights she would sit with him by a fire, telling him about her home and family, trusting him with her secrets and her sorrow. Now, the cause behind her sadness was his fault, and it drove a splinter into his heart. 

"He may be their leader, but they chose him. These men are brothers, they're a family."

Arya turned away then, not wanting to listen to this stupid boy that wanted to leave her for a gang of strangers. 

"I've never had a family," Gendry's voice was sad then, sad as her own when she turned to him and said, "I can be your family."

Gendry wasn't an idiot, she knew that. He was stupid sometimes, but Arya knew he understood what she meant. What she was offering. 

Arya always became softer in firelight, looked more her age instead of the weary prisoner of war that she so often appeared as. She wasn't much younger than him, maybe five years at the most, but it made all the difference. She was still so young, cast out into the world with the expectation she could survive. Her eyes were filled with youthful innocence as she begged for the impossible from him. He smiled sadly up at her, his heart twisting in fondness for this girl he had grown so close to since he had left King's Landing. The girl whose heart he had to break to make sure she could be with her real family, not some lowborn bastard with nothing to offer her.

"You wouldn't be my family," Gendry began, "you'd be my lady."

She started crying as she walked away, and it burnt him more than he had expected. 

 

\--

 

Arya never would have thought she could lose someone twice. First, when Gendry had decided to stay with the Brotherhood. The second, when the Red Witch took him away. She didn't call out to him, nor did he say anything to her. They had already said their goodbyes. So they watched eachother as Gendry was pulled away on the back of the cart, and Arya stayed where she stood. Arya gazed after the boy she was sure she would never see again and swallowed her grief, just as she had done on the King's Road. 

Now, with her last friend disappearing into the distance, Arya was well and truly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what ur thinking, "what are you doing updating twice in one day?????"
> 
> Well the answer is actually quite simple: 8-03 airs very very soon and i'm shitting myself in fear because legit everyone is gonna die. so im writing this as a happy reminder of when things were simple before they all get turned into white walkers yeet.


	4. Home Is Behind, The World Ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check tags for updates

_"Aim for that star... don't stop... don't drink seawater... keep the coast on your left side until you reach King's Landing."_

Gendry had long ago lost any feeling in his arms and shoulders. He had rowed past Rook's Rest, just as Davos had said. It had been almost two days since then; the bread had run out yesterday, and the water wasn't going to last much longer. His hands were blistered and bleeding, his face and neck burnt raw from the sun, but on he rowed, driven by his fear of the Red Woman. 

He did his best not to think about the Red Woman, frightened that the very thought of her might summon her out of the shadows of the deep waters. But his mind continually returned to calculating blue eyes, ruby red hair, leeches-

"Keep the coast on the left 'til King's Landing," Gendry mumbled, ducking his head from the scorching sun.

The sea had been gentle on him as he made his way closer and closer to King's Landing. Waves lapped shyly at the sides of the rowboat, never once seeping overboard, and gently rocked the boat to and fro as Gendry slept under the clear night skies. It was almost as if the sea knew Gendry couldn't swim and had decided to grant him safe travels to make up for it.

He allowed his mind to wander often, allowing his thoughts to travel steadily to Arya as he guessed at her whereabouts, whether she was safe. He did his best to think of the Arya he had come to know in the past months, the reckless, proud, _brave_ Arya he had come to know, not the heartbroken girl he had last seen somewhere in the Riverlands. Gendry felt his chest constrict when he remembered he had played a very significant part in that heartbreak. And now where was he? Somewhere out at sea, with no food and very little water, hoping against hope he would somehow make it to King's Landing. He had kept the coastline to his left at Davos had told him to, but he was too scared to stop at any of the seaside towns, Davos' warning ringing in his mind. _"You'll want to stop, don't. She'll find you."_

The water wasn't going to last much longer. 

"Don't drink seawater," Gendry repeated Davos' final words to him, knowing all too well he would be very tempted very soon. 

 

\--

 

"What are you _doing,_ you idiot?"

He knew that voice. Even at sea, in the pitch black darkness, Gendry would recognise that voice anywhere. 

"Arya?" He asked the darkness. He was half delirious, he hadn't eaten anything in four days and hadn't drank any water in almost two. 

No answer came from the darkness. Gendry was so tired. It was night after all, night was the time for sleeping. So why was Arya calling him an idiot? He was so thirsty. 

In the time he had been resting, Gendry's rowboat had begun drifting away from it's course, travelling out to sea rather than sticking to the coast. The outline of the beaches were now too far away to make out any distinct features in the faint moonlight. If he didn't start rowing back now, he might lost those beaches forever. But he was so tired. So what if he died at sea? At least then he would never have to worry about the Red Woman again, would no longer be tormented by dreams of the girl whose heart he thought he had to break, when it amounted to nothing in the end anyway. 

Then he thought of Arya, the way she would have scrunched up her eyebrows and turned her nose up at him, would call him a coward. And he knew she would be right. He had been rowing for somewhere around six days straight, he had to be close to King's Landing by now. He had never studied any maps of Westeros or Dragonstone, but he knew he had to be close. He _had_ to be. 

 

\--

 

Arya never thought her heart could be broken so many times until she saw Rob's body being paraded around The Twins, Grey Wind's head sewed to his neck. She didn't think it was possible to survive such an immense pain. Arya knew loss from when her father had died, but she hadn't seen the aftermath, she hadn't seen the body. Now, whenever Arya closed her eyes, all she could see was Robb. 

In her dreams, they would all visit her. Her mother would smile and cover up the wound at her throat with her hands. Syrio would walk past, a wooden sword at his hip, followed by Robb with his direwolf head riding a great stallion into the sea. Sansa in all her King's Landing finery would be weeping on the steps of the Great Sept, the hair she had worked at so desperately to resemble Queen Cercei's pooling around her shoulders. Gendry would sit in the shadows, his wrists bound behind his back, looking helplessly up at her. Mycah sat beside him, his red hair no longer brilliant, his pale skin now ashy with death. Then, her Father would appear, carrying his own head in the crook of his arm, telling her things in a language she didn't understand. And she was powerless to help any of them.

Not even reciting her list could stop the dreams. Not even killing the Frey men with The Hounds knife or retrieving Needle had been enough. The brief moments of victory she had felt disappeared the moment she closed her eyes. But sometimes, in the quiet of the early evening, when The Hound would collapse to the ground and start drinking, Arya would take out the coin Jaqen H'ghar had given her and she would recite the words. 

_"Valar Morghulis."_

Over and over again, Arya would repeat it to herself. Would say it as a mantra in her head while she practised her waterdancing. Would time her breaths with it's syllables, would whisper the words to the same rhythm as her pony's footsteps. She didn't understand the words, nor their significance, but she felt their power. Arya knew that these words would give her the ability to one day be able give justice to those who had destroyed her family and those closest to her heart. 

 

\--

 

When he finally made it to King's Landing, the first thing Gendry did was burst into tears. He never thought the day would come when he would rejoice to see the towering walls of the Red Keep, to hear the clamour of the great bells from the Sept.

But when he heard news of the Red Wedding, the massacre of the Stark forces and the desecration of Robb Stark, Gendry's anguish nearly drove him to sickness. 

He had only ever met one Stark, but Arya had told him so much about her brother and mother, that hearing of their death felt as if he had lost someone he knew closely. He knew how Arya had been affected by her father's death, so he could only imagine how she would handle the loss of two more family members. His heart ached for Arya, wherever she was. 

_If's she's still alive after you essentially abandoned her._

Gendry shook his head to try and rid himself of the thought. He had worked hard to get this job at a smithy at the bottom end of the Street of Steel, he couldn't let himself become distracted by nonsense thoughts. Besides, the Brotherhood had been discussing taking Arya to Riverrun to ransom her to her family, so she couldn't have been at The Twins when the Freys began the massacre. But still, a voice deep inside his skull spoke in a dark voice that Arya too had perished at The Twins, that her body was laying at the bottom of the same riverbed as her mother. 

 

\--

 

When Arya had refused to go with Jaqen to Braavos, it was because she had intended to find her family. 

But now, as she walked away from The Hound lying at the bottom of a ravine with his gold in her hands, she wondered why she had even bothered. She didn't really have any family left anymore. Both her parents and Robb were dead, Bran and Rickon were probably dead, Sansa was trapped in King's Landing and Jon was unreachable somewhere in the North. Mycah, Syrio, _Gendry,_ all of them were gone. Everyone she had ever loved, everyone she had ever cared about, was either dead, too far away or taken away from her. As The Hound's calls grew fainter and died among the hills, Arya decided there was no reason for her to stay in Westeros. 

Why stay, when she could learn to change faces like Jaqen? When she could learn to kill anyone with ease as he did? When she could learn to walk and talk without drawing attention, to pass by unnoticed by those around her?

Yes, she was going to learn. She wanted to learn. If there was no justice for the ones she loved, then she was going to create justice for them. 

As she boarded the only boat to Braavos, felt the wind in her hair and the blood singing in her ears, Arya finally saw the possibilities before her. And a smile crossed her face.


	5. Valar Dohaeris

_"Well, who are you then?"_

_"No One. And that is what A Girl must become."_

Arya hadn't understood what that meant, the words filling her with a strange sense of dread. But Jaqen H'ghar, or No One, opened the door for her then, finally granting her entrance after days of waiting. 

\--

Arya had been sweeping the floor for more than a week, dusting statues and watching Braavosi citizens drink from the pool of water in the main sanctuary. It was all so strange, so _foreign,_ that it often caused her head to spin. This is what she wanted, but she hadn't crossed the Narrow Sea simply to sweep floors and watch. She wondered how many of those she loved were already dead because she was too busy cleaning a temple half a world away. 

Often, when she had fulfilled her duties, Arya would retreat back to her small room outside of the main sanctuary and look at the coin that Jaqen had given her, attempting to understand it's significance. It was there that one of the acolytes found her and began asking her questions. 

"Who are you?" The acolyte asked, her accent clipped and her face vacant of any expression. She was obviously a Braavosi, but like Jaqen, she lacked a Braavosi accent, instead adopting the same low, ambiguous accent that all the Faceless Men seemed to have. She couldn't have been much taller than Arya herself. 

"You, who walk in here with a coin you never earned, whose value you do not respect. Who are you?" The acolyte had been striding back and forth, but now she stopped and crowded into Arya's space, standing over her as if to challenge her. Her voice had the slightest edge now, almost as if she was concealing her anger. Arya realised then what she was being asked, remembered what it was that Jaqen had told her to become.

"No One," Arya replied, before the acolyte smacked her arm with the stick she was holding, _hard._

"Cunt!" Arya yelled in pain before she could stop herself. She had spent way too much time around The Hound, his favourite word slipping from her lips as easily as it had slipped from his.

"A lie," the acolyte said, her head tilting slightly, "a sad little lie. Who are you?"

"I told you, I'm no-" Arya tried again, before the acolyte whacked her again, the stick making a loud cracking noise as it made contact. The acolyte continued to look down at her, her head still tilted, and it reminded her of how the Direwolves used to look at the deer in the Godswood before they would begin hunting. 

"Do that again and-" _whack_

"Who are you?" The acolyte asked again, her voice barely rising in pitch, her eyes challenging Arya as her hands tightened around the stick she was holding. 

"You're about to find out," Arya snarled, suddenly furious as she turned and began to pull Needle out from the covers of her bed with every intention to use it. Then, the two were interrupted by Jaqen as he entered Arya's room. 

"We were only playing," the acolyte began, her voice returning to that cool, emotionless tone she had when she first entered. "A Game of Faces," she continued, the barest hint of a smile arising on her face. 

"A girl is not ready," Jaqen told her, not bothering to look at Arya. 

"Clearly not," the Acolyte said, turning to Arya as she spoke, her face turning smug. 

"I am ready!" Arya tried, finally drawing Jaqen's attention her way. She never had been very aware of her own Northern accent until that moment, in the same room as two No Ones. While both of their voices were clipped, obscure yet commanding, Arya's own voice was as drawly and slurred as any Northerner. "Ready to be a Faceless Man, to be No One." She heard the desperation in her own voice and was sure that Jaqen heard it also. He looked at her hard then, evaluating her words, before his cold eyes drifted down to her bed where Needle was clearly visible. 

"Whose sword is that?" Jaqen asked, his voice giving nothing away. "It belongs to Arya Stark. Arya Stark's sword, Arya Stark's clothes, Arya Stark's stolen silver... A Man wonders how it is that No One came to be surrounded by Arya Stark's things."

Arya had known when she first entered the House of Black and White that she needed to become No One to become a Faceless Man, but she hadn't truly understood what that meant until that very moment. To become No One was to lose all connection to Arya Stark, to Arya Stark's family and Arya Stark's home. Arya Stark needed to become someone from the past if she was to progress. 

As she slowly wrapped her clothes and barest possessions around rocks to ensure they sank into the pier, she contemplated this fact, thought of all the faces she would need to erase from her mind. These were the faces of the friends and family of Arya Stark. She pictured them one by one; her father and mother, Robb and Jon, Sansa and Rickon. She pictured others, as well. Syrio, Theon, Hot Pie, Mycah, even Jeyne Poole. Then, she thought of dark hair falling into sea blue eyes as they reflected a flickering fire, and her hands stopped their work, her eyes closing.

She pictured Gendry in her mind then, in the warmth of the Brotherhood Cave, they way he had looked at her with sadness and something else that she couldn't quite place, something she didn't entirely understand, and her heart ached. She missed him, just as much as she missed the rest of her family. Because in Arya's mind, Gendry _was_ her family, or had been, until he chose to stay with the Brotherhood. 

_"You wouldn't be my family, you'd be M'lady."_

How long had it been since she had seen Gendry? Three, four months? Yet she still heard his voice as clear as if he was right next to her. How long had it been since she had watched him as he was taken away from her?

Her eyes opened then, her chin tipped up just slightly in defiance at the memory. That same fury she had felt then began coursing through her veins again. 

_How long had it been since The Red Woman took Gendry away?_

She remembered then why she was here, _why_ she was training to become No One. Because people like The Red Woman were still in the world, unaffected by what they had done to those she loved. 

With a resounding splash, any remaining ties to Arya Stark she once had were dropped into the sea. All except one. 

She turned then and looked at Needle. Slowly, she picked it up, as gentle as if she held her own heart, and turned back to the water. She looked out across the bay, trying to steel herself for what she had to do. She imagined the sound Needle would make as it fell into the water, and she pictured Needle laying at the bottom of the ocean floor, and it _hurt._ Needle wasn't just part of Arya Stark. It was Jon Snow's smile, it was the kindness of Syrio Forel, her father and Gendry. Needle had protected Arya Stark ever since she had left Winterfell, and as she curled her fingers around Needle's pommel, the same way that Syrio had shown her how, she realised she couldn't do it. 

She turned away from the bay then with Needle still in her hands. She couldn't throw it into the water, but she also couldn't keep it. Eyeing one of the rock walls near the pier, she approached it whilst keeping an eye out for anyone that might see her. 

Just because she couldn't be Arya Stark anymore didn't mean she had to erase all memory of her. 

 

\--

Arya began to know The Waif. She couldn't tell how old she was, whether she was older or younger than Arya, but she looked upon Arya in arrogance, enjoyed beating her in the Game of Faces. The Waif was far better than Arya at being No One. The Waif was clean and precise, every task she carried out with ease and without raising the suspicions of others. The Waif terrified Arya, with her smug grins and her ability to always tell when Arya was lying, her head tilting to the side as she whacked Arya again and again with her stick. But after weeks of playing the Game of Faces and continuing to lose, Arya began to notice something about The Waif. 

The Waif was clean, neat and tidy. Everything had to be in place at all times, whether it be her hair, her victims or her clothes. The Waif would often adjust her clothes without realising, often pushing at her smock to iron out any creases whenever she would move. She did it with great satisfaction, a subconscious action that signified that she was pleased. While Arya would sweep the floors and help people to the pool of water in the main sanctuary, The Waif would sometimes be sent out by Jaqen on tasks of her own. But The Waif's tendencies to adjust her clothes gave her away every time to Arya, even when The Waif was wearing a different face. 

Arya had her own tells. Her Mother would sometimes point them out to her when she was a child in Winterfell, and Jon always managed to know what she was thinking because of them. Arya had always been shorter than everyone around her, that hadn't changed much as she had grown. As a result, whenever she was angry, whenever she was feeling defiant, she would push her chin out, glaring upwards at whoever she would be talking to. Arya's head would angle up in an attempt to maintain her pride, to make herself seem taller than she was. She did it as subconsciously as The Waif would adjust her clothes. These small things would be what would prevent her from becoming No One. How could she become someone else, if she still maintained the same habits and tendencies as Arya Stark? It was something she actively worked upon, desperate to please Jaqen and prove her worth, that she was capable of progressing beyond playing the Game of Faces, sweeping floors and cleaning bodies. She was also dimly aware of her Northern accent, something that had always set her and her family apart in King's Landing. Arya noticed within the first week of being in King's Landing that Sansa had passionately begun attempting to replicate the lilting, melodic accent that all the ladies in the Red Keep seemed to have. Yet Arya tried to hold onto her voice, even on the King's Road when she was surrounded by rough Flea Bottom accents, she did her best to maintain her Northern accent. The only person's accent that never seemed to bother her was Gendry's, whose words were still as rough and abrupt as everyone else from Flea Bottom, but he had a softer way of speaking that gave her the impression he often thought hard about his words before he said them. 

But now, as she listened to The Waif and Jaqen speak, she found herself attempting to drop her native accent, emulating the same cool, cryptic way of speaking they both used. If she was to become No One, she had to walk, speak and act like The Waif, irrespective of her fear of the other acolyte.

When Jaqen had brought her to the Hall of Faces and she viewed the countless faces adorning the walls and corridors for the first time, he finally asked her the question, "is a girl ready?"

The question had stalled her, pulled her away from her grim fascination with the faces on the walls. 

"Ready to give up her ears, her nose, her tongue? Her hopes and dreams, her loves and hates? All that makes a girl who she is?"

Arya didn't know. She didn't know what she wanted anymore. She wanted to avenge her family, she wanted to have the ability to destroy those who had harmed them. But did she want to give up everything so she would be able to do it?

"No," Jaqen had answered for her, but his voice wasn't unkind. "A girl is not ready to become No One, but she is ready to become Someone Else."

So she became Someone Else. She became Lanna, an oyster seller. She became very good at being Lanna, reporting back to Jaqen about Lanna's upbringing, what Lanna saw and what thoughts Lanna was having. She had gotten somewhat better at the Game of Faces, just good enough to avoid being hit with the stick the majority of the time. She practised more with Jaqen than she did with The Waif, and was beginning to learn what it meant to truly serve the Many Faced God.

"Although all men must die, all men must also serve," Jaqen explained to Lanna one day before she left The House of Black and White for the canals. "And all men serve Death, one way or another. When their time comes, we readily accept the names that are offered. Lanna is very impressive, very industrious. She will make a fine servant for the Many Faced God."

"How will she serve him?" Lanna asked. When Lanna spoke, she adopted a softer, more feminine voice, different from Arya's normal speaking voice. She was becoming better at dropping her native accent in favour of the ambiguous accent of the Faceless Men. Lanna had discovered that the key to succeeding in the Game of Faces was to maintain this voice. Jaqen didn't even need to look at Lanna most of the time to know if she was lying, small changes in her voice giving her away. If she could maintain that voice, not allow small changes to give herself away, Lanna could sometimes lie so convincingly to Jaqen's face she wouldn't receive a single blow. But that was still a rare event, her excitement at successfully lying almost immediately giving the Game away. 

"After the marketplace from the canals, she will no longer turn left onto Ragman Lane, she will turn right, and go to Ragman Harbour."

"What will she do there?" Lanna asked, quelling her curiosity. Arya would want to know where she was going, but Lanna was a good, hardworking girl that took directions without question. 

"She will see," Jaqen replied. 

"See what?" Lanna asked, nearly wincing when she heard Arya's impatience in her voice. Arya lacked patience, but Lanna wasn't supposed to. 

"How can a man tell a girl this? If he knew what she would see, there would be no reason to send her," was the only reply Lanna received. 

It had been almost five months since Arya Stark had left Westeros. But Lanna didn't think about that, she didn't think about Arya Stark's family or her home, she only thought of the task ahead.

 

\--

 

_"A girl named Lanna will return to the docks. She will watch the gambler. She will come to know as much about him as she knows about herself."_

_"And then what?"_

_"A gift for the thin man."_

Lanna felt her excitement bubble up in her chest for she had finally received an assignment. She held onto the small vial of poison and felt her heart swell and her face begin to split into a smile. 

All men must serve, and Arya was finally playing her part.

\--

 

Lanna quickly developed a very strict routine. She would rise early, right as the sun was rising on Braavos, and leave her small alcove in the canals. She would collect her cart, then slowly make her way across the city, though the market and towards Ragman Harbour, selling oysters along the way. By the time Lanna reached the harbour, it was almost midday, when The Thin Man was most hungry. He always bought four oysters with vinegar from her cart. Lanna would stay nearby, listening to The Thin Man as he conducted business, and study the man, seeking to know everything about him. She had yet to carry the small vial of poison with her, waiting for the correct time to poison the man. When she was finished watching and listening, she would slowly make her way back to the Canals through the city, stopping through the marketplace to buy bread and cheese to eat, and she would return to her alcove before it was dark. 

There in the privacy of Lanna's hideaway, Arya allowed her walls to come down, taking her first free breath since she left that morning. She would unwind the Braavosi braids she had carefully perfected after watching countless Braavosi women create the same hairstyles, and have her supper. She always made sure the door was locked during these moments, for these were the moments in which Arya allowed herself to be Arya Stark. 

She wasn't quite ready to be No One yet, Jaqen had said so himself. Her own dreams and thoughts still betrayed her in her most private moments. 

Arya still dreamt of her family, of the people she had left behind, and it pained her to remember how far away she was from her home. In the quiet of her hideaway, after she would blow out her single candle and allow the darkness to surround her, Arya would secretly continue to recite her list, offering the names to the Many Faced God in the hopes he would hear. Almost two years had passed since Arya had recited her list for the first time, but it still helped her to sleep every time, whether she was lying in a puddle in the courtyard of Harrenhal, or trying to sleep in the canals of Braavos across the Narrow Sea.

 

\--

 

_"Tell me about King's Landing."_

_Arya was no longer in Braavos. She was on the cusp of 14 again, her hair was shorter, and she was sitting next to a dying fire, somewhere deep in The Riverlands. The sounds of sleeping men surrounded them; she had heard one of them mention they would reach the Brotherhood hideout before midday tommorow, but it would be a long ride before then._

_"Thought you said King's Landing was a shit pile," Gendry replied from across the fire. He was sitting up against a tree trunk, trying to mend his tattered boots in the halflight. Arya shrugged, but Gendry wasn't looking at her._

_"That's because it is a shit pile," Arya replied. Gendry snorted in amusement and shook his head. "But I didn't get to see much of it when I was there. I never went to Flea Bottom, what's that like?" Arya asked, desperate to fill in the silence. Normally, she would fill in the silence herself, telling Gendry about Winterfell and her family in an attempt to pry off the icy sadness that had wedged it's way into her chest. But not tonight. Tonight, Arya was tired, and all she wanted was to hear the voice of someone she trusted, someone she knew was still alive._

_Gendry sighed then, stopping his work._

_"It's not a place for ladies, that's for sure and certain," he said with a smile, looking at Arya across the fire. She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin in response._

_"I lived on the Street of Steel, most blacksmiths did. Wasn't much to look at really. Lots of people, lots of knights, lots of noise. The smiths would get up with the sun and start working early, you'd always be woken up by hammers banging against steel," Gendry continued, no longer looking at Arya. Instead, he let his head tip back and his eyes close. There were dark circles under his eyes; Arya wondered when Gendry had last properly slept. "Dealt with a lot of people that were only buying armour and weapons for show, they never intended to actually use them."_

_His eyebrows furrowed in concentration then, as if he was trying hard to remember. "The noise lasted well into the night, blacksmiths always work late, see? Loads of drunk people would walk through the street and start fights at night. I never bothered counting the taverns and pubs in Flea Bottom, there was always too many..." Gendry trailed off then as he yawned tiredly._

_"I think the thing I won't miss about home is the smell. The amount of drunk people that would just piss and shit and vomit all over the streets..." Gendry trailed off then, on the verge of falling asleep._

_"... So it was literally a shit pile then?" Arya tried. Gendry laughed hard then, his amusement echoing through the forest. One of the men threw something at him, told him to shut up, and he managed to stifle any further laughter._

_"Like I said, it's no place for rich little ladies such as yourself." Despite herself, Arya smiled, and Gendry smiled back._

Arya woke with a start, nearly rolling off her mat on the floor. The sound of a rooster crowing in the distance had woken her from her dream. But that hadn't been a dream, it was a memory. A memory so vivid and tangible she could still feel the grass beneath her, still feel the closeness of the forest air all around her. She rubbed furiously at her eyes, trying to get rid of any remaining tiredness. 

She had been working on suppressing memories like that, she wasn't supposed to think about Gendry, or anyone back home for that matter. Lanna didn't think about boys from Flea Bottom, nor did she dream about them. Lanna had never left Braavos before.

But she was distracted that morning, slipping multiple times as she tried to braid her hair and having to restart it again and again. She couldn't stop thinking about that kind boy she had met in King's Landing, who had helped her when she was alone, would listen to her talk in the darkness because it was what she needed. 

Arya was trying to forget, she had to forget. But it seemed there were some faces burned so deep into her mind she would never be able to erase them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so selfish because it's literally what I wished was talked about in Season 6 whoops lol. 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is very Arya centric, but I think that a lot of potential characterisation for Arya got dismissed by d&d in favour of making her an unfeeling, murderous assassin. Arya choosing to remain 'Arya', rather than become No One, is a very telling aspect of Arya as a character, and is a very significant part of her character arc that I feel should have been further expanded upon in season 6. 
> 
> Also, I really wish that the various accents from across Westeros and Essos were explored more because they're all so interesting. Like, the majority of characters you can kind of tell where they're from depending on the accent the actor is using and I think that's just so fukin sick and I wish it was explored more in fics. So of course, I've focused a little bit of this chapter on them, because a lot of people seemed to overlook this really interesting aspect of Game of Thrones. 
> 
> Thankyou for all your support, kind words and kudos for this messy, messy fic. Your positivity fuels me ya'll


	6. No One

Arya thought she knew loneliness. As more and more people left her life, as Death claimed more and more of the names she held dear, she had felt her loneliness weigh her down like rocks tied to her ankles. Ever since she had left King's Landing, Arya felt as if she had been traversing a perilous road plagued by darkness, her only guides being a few small candles that were quickly extinguished. Over the years, her loneliness had been her one constant companion.

She thought she had suffered through enough loneliness to last her a lifetime.

Then, her sight was taken from her. 

The streets she had once walked with pride and ease became a maze. For the first few days, Arya struggled to even understand where in Braavos she was. With her sight gone, her hearing had become strangely heightened, but now she was constantly bombarded with noises and chatter, leaving her with a headache that ran across the crown of her forehead at the end of every day. She wasn't used to such extreme white noise, so she often found herself dragging herself down to the canals, where it was quieter and there was less chance of disturbance.

But every day, The Waif would somehow come and find her, beating her and asking her the same questions over and over again. 

_"Who are you?"_

Arya didn't know anymore. She didn't feel like Arya Stark anymore. She didn't feel like Lanna The Orphan either. No, she was something else all together now. Not yet No One, and not quite Someone Else. She was stuck in some type of purgatory, trapped between who she used to be and what she was becoming. 

Still, in her dreams, Arya still had her eyes. She dreamt of returning to Westeros and driving Needle though Cersei's eye. She dreamt of poisoning Walder Frey and all his wretched family. She dreamt of returning to Winterfell, seeing it's Godswood and Jon Snow's smile once again. Her brothers and Father would visit her in the streets of Braavos, mussing her hair and offering to take her back home. Joffrey's head was mounted on a spike in the Red Keep next to Berric Dondarrion's. Gendry would be hammering armour into shape back in Harrenhal, telling her about his day and listening as she talked about hers. 

_"I've never had a family."_

Arya's dreams were a strange mix of memories, names being crossed off her list and desperate hopes to one day return home. But she had much to do before that time came. 

 

\--

 

Sometimes, when the nights were clear, and the usual stink of King's Landing was carried away by a sweet sea breeze, Gendry would think of Arya. 

Ever since he had gotten his own shop, saved enough gold to make his own space, it was as if she had started haunting him. 

Once, he could have sworn he saw her, running barefoot through the Street of Steel. He saw dark hair, pale hands and haunted eyes and immediately thought of Arya. He had stepped out of his shop, fully intending to chase her, until the orphan girl had turned around and looked up at him in utter terror. The girl he had briefly mistaken for Arya was too tall, and her eyes were blue instead of the dark brown Arya's were. With an apology, Gendry returned back into his shop, and not even the singing of steel could drown her voice from his mind. 

_"Tell me about King's Landing."_

Firelight reflecting tears of grief, tattered boots, the smell of horses and the forest, Arya's soft voice carrying through the still night air. Gendry wasn't in King's Landing anymore, no, he was lost in the Riverlands again, starving hungry yet giving most of his food to an unknowing Arya. He was somewhere between boyhood and manhood, and he was a little bit in love with an angry, impatient highborn girl that deserved far more than some unrecognised bastard. Arya deserved so much more than what he had left her with. 

_"I can be your family."_

When The Red Woman had taken Gendry to Dragonstone, it was as if Arya Stark completely disappeared from the face of the Earth. There were plenty of dark whispers throughout King's Landing of some Bolton Lord butchering Stannis Baratheon's men up North, of Sansa Stark killing Joffrey Baratheon, of Queen Cersei walking naked through the streets, but he never heard anything about Arya. The world had indeed forgotten Arya Stark of Winterfell; in the eyes of the inhabitants of King's Landing, Arya Stark died the same day Ned Stark was beheaded.

And Gendry shuddered at the thought. To think of someone like Arya completely disappearing seemed _wrong_ somehow. People with that much spirit, that much to fire to survive, they couldn't just disappear. 

_Not unless they were dead._

Gendry noticed the nights had started getting cooler, the air was no longer as balmy as it was when Gendry was growing up. He could feel the changing season in the very air itself. And it was on one particularly cool night, when Gendry finally retired from his work, that he accepted that Arya Stark was probably dead, and he had done nothing to prevent it. 

 

\--

Arya was improving, she could feel it in her gut. She had been blind for almost three months and had been back at the House of Black and White for a week and a half when she finally, _finally_ blocked The Waif's sparring stick from hitting her across the face. Of course, The Waif's sparring stick immediately countered and cracked her in the ribs, causing Arya to fall to the ground with a shriek of pain, but it was an improvement. 

Losing her sight had somehow improved her hearing, her ears compensating for the information she was no longer receiving from her eyes. If she was still enough, if she was patient enough to listen, she could track The Waif's movements, listen to her breathing, hear the whistle of the sparring stick swinging through the air. She had been hit with a stick enough times to now tell the difference between the sounds of the stick as it moved in different directions, at different speeds. Arya was severely winded, and she was sure one of her ribs were cracked, but she was improving. It was bitter work, and Arya never did have the patience for long term goals, but she was _advancing_ for the first time in what felt like years. 

She still wasn't much better at the Game of Faces. She could be Someone Else when she wanted to be with ease, but when the Waif would ask about Arya Stark of Winterfell, Arya would struggle. The majority of welts and bruises on her arms were from the Games that seemed to focus on Arya Stark's family. Arya never was a good lier, not when it came to herself. 

Irrespective to sparring and playing the Game, Arya continued her work as an acolyte, whilst also training with Jaqen. He was trying to teach her how to detect lies, how to hear lies in someone's voice, and also how to read emotions. It was important whilst serving the Many Faced God to be able to read people, to be able to understand what they were feeling, thus making them an easier target. 

"A Girl needs to taste emotions on the air, like a summer breeze," Jaqen explained one day. "A Girl already shows some skill at this, though she doesn't realise. A Girl is full to the brim with potential and gifts, all of which are favourable to the Many Faced God."

"Taste emotions?" Arya tried to understand, speaking in the same voice used by all the Faceless Men. "How can A Girl taste emotion?"

"A Girl will grow to know. Fear, anxiety, unease, these emotions can sour the air. Surely A Girl has noticed this at some point throughout her travels?"

Arya had noticed it many times. She could remember how the air seemed to change in Harrenhal whenever the sun would rise and the Mountain would enter the Courtyard to begin interrogations. She could remember how the air felt heavy around her, but she had assumed that was her own fear weighing her down. 

"A Girl cannot say for sure," Arya replied. 

Eventually, just as Jaqen had said, Arya grew to understand. 

She couldn't pick up on the visual cues, but she was becoming very adept at sensing the emotions of The Waif and the other acolytes. She could feel The Waif's frustration as Arya continued to improve her sparring, could hear how she had started to struggle and become out of breath. The Waif no longer poked at and made fun of Arya's blindness, instead she attempted to assert herself over Arya by cracking her in the face again and again during sparring. If Arya could see, she was sure her face would be littered with bruises, cuts and scars from The Waif's handiwork. 

Arya had once been afraid of The Waif, but when Arya struck back for the first time with her stick, whacking The Waif right on her shoulder, she felt the air change. The Waif was _confused_ by Arya's improvement. She didn't understand how a blind girl could hit her in a sparring match. Arya doubted The Waif had ever been properly hit before, never beaten the same way The Waif would beat Arya. The Waif's arrogance led her to believe she was invincible, especially in regards to Arya. So when Arya struck back for the first time, hard enough to leave a bruise, The Waif was _scared_. The Waif had always been better than Arya, but now Arya could do something that she couldn't: Arya could fight without her sight. 

And Arya almost felt sorry for her. 

Almost.

 

\--

The Waif had always been arrogant. From the very moment Arya had met her, she had known The Waif's arrogance, had become so familiar with it that she knew how to twist it, how to use it to ensure The Waif's downfall.

Arya hadn't expected The Waif to find her, or to kill Lady Crane. That had been her mistake. But it was The Waif's mistake to follow her, to think herself so mighty that she could corner Arya in her own hideaway. The Waif had always loved clean, efficient kills that remained silent and away from the eyes of others. Her anger at having to publicly chase Arya through the marketplace, watching Arya tumble down the marketplace stairs, cause such a scene that the entirety of the marketplace was alerted, distracted her. Arya's stitches had reopened and her ankle burned with pain every time she put weight on it, but she knew The Waif. She knew this area and she knew her hideaway. Arya knew that The Waif's arrogance, her frustration and desperation had blinded her, caused her to forget that Arya could predict the movements of others without having to see them. She knew The Waif would follow her here, enticed by the potential for an assassination away from the eyes of the public, somewhere secret where there was no escape for Arya. No escape for The Waif herself.

Arya had lived in darkness for months, being beaten senseless with a stick by The Waif with nothing to defend herself. She wasn't going to die at her hands now.

_Not today._

Arya had been waiting for her, knew that she would appear in the doorway, her mouth curved in that cruel, smug smile that always seemed to adorn her face whenever she would hurt Arya. She lured The Waif in with promises of a quick end to the chase, smiling inwardly when The Waif finally appeared in the doorway, her silhouette blocking the light. Once, the sight would have stirred fear in her heart, caused her hands to sweat and her knees to tremble. Now, there was only a grim resignation, a surge of adrenaline, in preparation of what was about to ensue.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

 

"It will all be over soon," The Waif announced, her voice different from anything she had every heard. There was no anger, no spite, no fear or unease. No, there was no emotion there. As passive and detached as any Faceless Man, as reverent as any prayer. The blood from Arya's reopened stitches was creeping through her fingers and spilling onto the floor and she was still slightly delirious from the Milk of the Poppy Lady Crane had given her. She didn't have much longer until she was going to pass out. 

"On your knees? Or on your feet?" The Waif asked, finally stopping, her head tilted as she waited. 

Arya steeled herself then. She didn't have time for fear, for nervousness, nor for excitement. She knew what she had to do, how she was going to kill The Waif. 

_Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, The Mountain, Walder Frey, Tywin Lannister, The Red Woman, Berric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, The Waif._

Arya struggled to her feet, drawing Needle out from the depths of her ratty blankets. She no longer clutched at her bleeding abdomen, her hands shook just slightly from the blood loss. Arya felt The Waif's dissappointment then, her _amusement_ , at Arya's final stand. It sent the faintest of shivers up Arya's spine. 

"That won't help you now." The Waif began striding towards her, the blade in her hand flicking wickedly in the half light from the candle. The barest of smiles curved across her face as she closed the distance between them, and it was the most emotion Arya had ever seen or felt from The Waif. 

She drew Needle to her chest, took a final deep breath before the plunge, and swept Needle through the candle swift enough to extinguish it. 

The Waif stopped in her tracks, Arya swore she could _hear_ The Waif's heart rate suddenly accelerate as she began to panic in the gloom. 

Arya's eyes were closed, even in the dark, as she listened to The Waif's fear, her alarm ignite the air and hiss in her ears. Arya was blind again, but not as blind as The Waif. She visualised the other woman in her mind, where she was in the darkness, and strode forward to meet her, raising Needle as she did so. 

The Waif had been right, it was going to be over very soon. 

\--

Arya had never been able to sense any emotions from Jaqen. With The Waif, the other acolytes, and the people of Braavos, they let their emotions leak into the air freely. But Jaqen, he had always been as unreadable as a stone. Yet when he witnessed her handiwork, saw The Waif's bloody face hanging in The Hall, she felt something foreign distort the air, something that warmed her heart just enough that she didn't outright stab Jaqen in the back. 

_Pride._

Jaqen was proud of her. 

Jaqen H'ghar looked at her then, his face stony, but his eyes betraying his emotions.

_"A Girl is finally No One."_

Arya had spent the past year and a half working and working to become a faceless man. To truly become No One. Driven by her need to create justice in a world that lacked it, to bring vengeance upon those who had sought to destroy those she loved. It was the reason she had killed Meryn Trant instead of The Thin Man, why she would sometimes picture Gendry's face as she secretly continued to recite her list. But once she had refused to kill Lady Crane, taken The Waif's face and placed it in the Hall of Faces, Arya came to a staggering realisation. She had sought to become No One so she could avenge her family's deaths. But if she became No One, she wouldn't have a family because she would no longer be Arya Stark. Her entire pursuit of becoming No One would become redundant.

What then, would be the point of becoming one of the Faceless Men, if she couldn't protect the ones that she loved? If she no longer had the option to cross names off of her list, ensuring forever that those she loved would never fear for their lives again? Arya knew in that moment she was more than just vengeance; more than justice, equity, and everything she had sought to bring to the world. No, she had been shaped by The Faceless Men, but she was the person she was today because of Jon Snow's smile, her Father's kindness, the colour of the stones of Winterfell, the sun shining against Sansa's copper hair, the light of a fire reflecting off of Gendry's blue eyes.

Arya knew the truth then. It was the truth that had prevented her from tossing Needle into the sea. Prevented her from forgetting Gendry's face. Prevented her from letting go of her family. It was the truth she had sought to ignore for months now, with no success. But now, she embraced it. She was never going to be a silent instrument for the Many Faced God, or for Death, not while there was still people she loved drawing breath. She wasn't going to let Death take any more of them.

_"A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I am going home."_


	7. Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Where must we go, we who wander this wasteland, in search of our better selves?"

The satisfaction of killing the Frey men had long since worn off by the time Arya arrived at the Crossroads Inn. At the time, it had filled her with a grim satisfaction that could only be granted by killing the men that assisted in the destruction of her House. Yet now, as she sat in the warm atmosphere of the inn, she felt nothing.

She had recognised the inn as she had rode up to it, she had been there once, a million years ago. It was the same inn that The Hound had recognised her in, inadvertently causing Arya to leave Westeros. _Strange,_ she thought, _the passage of time._

The inside of the Inn was different from last time, the windows were covered up, the fires burnt higher and the doors swung closed faster to keep out the cold. The inn had changed for the arrival of Winter, and Arya supposed she had as well.

Her hair was now long enough to properly tie up, and she pulled it up off her face in a fashion that was distinctly Northern, although Arya did not realise this. She sought practicality and functionality more than anything as she made her way South to King's Landing. She didn't stop to consider that she had adopted the same hairstyle that her Father had once worn, that Jon used to tie his hair up similarly when his hair grew too long. No, she didn't think about that anymore.

She had but one goal ever since she had returned to Westeros: she needed to continue crossing names off of her list so her remaining family could be safe, so those who had once destroyed her family could feel her pain. Arya would return to Winterfell, one day, and reunite with whatever remained of her family. Then she could know peace, until then she was forced to brave the storms of her own memories, her own dreams. 

Two poachers sitting behind Arya were loudly discussing Queen Cersei and King's Landing, and she found herself listening in. Much had happened since Arya set sail for Braavos, and the best way to catch up on all she had missed was to simply listen. Listen as quietly and intently as No One would. 

Arya was not No One, she had rejected the identity altogether, but sometimes she found herself slipping into old habits, dropping her accent, remembering where the exits were at all times, listening into conversations that weren't hers to listen to. 

_"A Girl is finally No One."_

"Arry!"

Arya looked up, her old name breaking through her thoughts and making short work of the walls she had so carefully crafted. It had been years since anyone had called her that, years since she had felt the name's familiarity wash over her like a wave. The last person that called her that...

"Hello Hot Pie."

It had been years since she had last seen the boy, but Hot Pie's smile was exactly the same. Hot Pie had barely changed, and it warmed Arya's heart despite the coldness that had been planted there. A familiar face was exactly what she needed to pull her away from her darkening thoughts. 

Hot Pie looked just as shocked as she felt; she didn't think Hot Pie would still be at the same Inn after all the years they had been apart. 

"Sit down," Arya said, too scared to take her eyes off the boy in case he disappeared, like he and countless others always did in her dreams. But if she was dreaming, then it was a good dream. Arya couldn't remember the last time she had been this happy, reunited with an old friend. 

But then, she saw the pies he was carrying, and she remembered she hadn't eaten in two days. 

"Who's that for?" Arya asked, not waiting for his response before she took it. She felt Hot Pie's confusion then, but also the familiarity. How many times did she do this to Hot Pie as a child, stealing his food right from his hands? She was always hungry back then, so maybe some things hadn't changed after all.

She stabbed into the pie and immediately began eating. The buttery pastry and the thick gravy was almost good enough to make her head spin. She remembered cleaning out the Frey stores, eating as much as she could before she threw up. Arya had forgotten what good food tasted like after years of the barest food available to keep her alive, so she had indulged herself, forced herself to eat more than she physically could, and eaten herself sick. But this, this Arya had to savour. 

"This is good," Arya mumbled through a mouthful of pie. She felt Hot Pie's pride then, felt his confusion disappear and be replaced by something warm and happy that was so distinctly Hot Pie that it brought a smile to her face.

"You think so?" Hot Pie asked, his happiness at the compliment colouring his voice. "The secret is to brown the butter. Not many people do that because it takes too long."

"Mmm, I didn't do that," Arya replied, too preoccupied with her meal to consider the meaning behind her words. 

"You've been making pies?" Hot Pie asked incredulously. 

_Gut them first. Is that too much flour? Use the blood in the gravy. The pastry is too dry. The Frey men didn't scream as she killed them, but they had twitched erratically as they lay bleeding out._

"A few," Arya said simply, not making eye contact with Hot Pie anymore. 

_"A Girl is finally No One."_

Was she? What if the things she had seen, the things she had done, the things that had been done to her in Braavos, what if they had indeed changed her? Arya didn't feel like No One, but she wasn't sure who she felt like now. She had claimed back her identity in Braavos and refused to be No One, somewhere deep down she must still be Arya Stark of Winterfell. Right?

"I can't believe you're here!" Hot Pie began talking again, speaking faster and faster, on the verge of rambling, just like he used to all those years ago. 

"Did you meet the big lady?" Hot Pie asked, drawing Arya's attention. 

"Big Lady?" Arya repeated in confusion. 

"The Lady Knight," Hot Pie continued, oblivious to the darkness grabbing hold of Arya's throat. "I figured she was a knight 'cause she had armour on. She was looking for your sister, but I told her about you. Did she ever find you?"

Arya heard it then, The Hound's voice screaming through the hills, begging Arya to kill him. She saw her, the tallest women Arya had ever seen, throw The Hound off the top of the cliff they had been fighting on. Arya had wanted to help, but they were both so big, how could she get in the middle of them without being crushed? She couldn't have gone with her, with her Lannister forged armour and sword. She was just going to take her right back to Cersei, back to King's Landing where she would surely be killed. 

_"You remember where the heart is? Go on girl, I'm ready. Another name off your list."_

"She found me."

Arya didn't say any more, and she felt Hot Pie's growing concern, his polite interest. 

"What happened to you, Arry?"

Hot Pie's voice was soft, speaking as if he was talking to an injured, dangerous animal. The last person that had asked her that, shown an interest in her, had been Lady Crane, and she had been butchered by The Waif. She finally looked at Hot Pie then, any words that she wanted to say died in her throat. How could she ever begin to explain to him, this soft innocent boy, the things that had happened to her? 

"What happened to Gendry?" Hot Pie tried, his voice just as careful as it was before. 

_Gendry._

Arya hadn't heard his name spoken out loud in years. It was one of the few precious names she had never revealed to The Waif. His face, like so many others, were burnt into her memory. She thought of blue eyes in the darkness, the barest beginnings of a beard. She thought of Gendry being taken away by the Red Woman, how he had struggled but eventually given in. She saw the cruelness in the Red Woman, felt her malignant intentions twist in her gut long before Arya knew how to read emotions. She had known the truth for years, but could never bring herself to believe it until that moment.

"Gendry died. A long time ago," Arya whispered, looking away. 

_"You wouldn't be my family, you'd be M'lady."_

"Oh, that's sad. He was good, he was." Hot Pie said after some time. The air had changed, Arya's grief turning the air heavy and Hot Pie sadness eradicating any of the warmth from the fires. 

Arya was alone again. 

"He was," Arya agreed. She didn't like this, being so open. She had spent so long training her emotions away, ignoring anything that made her human, that whenever she felt anything now, it felt foreign. Almost _wrong._

"You got any ale?" Arya asked, not waiting for his response before she reached over Hot Pie to grab a pitcher that was destined for someone else. She didn't want to talk about the people that were gone, not anymore.

"Where you heading?" Hot Pie changed the subject quickly. He always had been good at picking up on Arya's cues, and when he realised she wasn't going to talk anymore, he happily changed the subject. Hot Pie always had been a people pleaser, and for that Arya admired him. 

"King's Landing, heard Cersei's Queen now" Arya replied curtly, allowing her walls to gradually build up again. Hot Pie knew about her list, had even asked her about it once. Her explanation should be enough. 

"Heard she blew up the Great Sept, that must have been something to see. I can't believe someone would do that," Hot Pie told her, happily breezing over the hate that had creeped into Arya's voice. 

"Cersei would do that," Arya retorted, her voice instinctively began dropping it's native accent before she could stop it. She was angry at the thought of Cersei, the same woman that had ordered the death of Lady, that had stood by as her father was executed, had now probably killed hundreds more innocents. So angry, that Arya forgot where she was for a moment.

_I could have stopped that if I had been here earlier._

"I thought you'd be heading to Winterfell."

At the mention of her childhood home, Arya was drawn from the depths of her mind and looked at Hot Pie, puzzled by what he was saying. 

"Why would I go there? The Boltons have it." 

"No, the Boltons are dead," Hot Pie announced with a slight shake of his head. 

"What?" Arya asked, forgetting her pie. In the weeks she had been back, Arya never heard anything about the Bolton's demise.

"Jon Snow came down from Castle Black with a wildling army and won the Battle of the Bastards. He's King of the North now," Hot Pie proclaimed proudly. There was no lie in Hot Pie's voice, no tell tale shift she found herself looking for. 

"You're lying," Arya told him in disbelief. What Hot Pie was saying was impossible. 

"Why would I lie about that?" Hot Pie asked, not at all offended by Arya's words. "He's your brother, right?"

Hot Pie _was_ right. Jon Snow's her brother. 

Her family, the people she loved, were back at Winterfell. 

So what was she doing still down in the Riverlands?

Arya had forgotten Cersei, forgotten King's Landing and her list. All she could think about was _Jon._ Jon, the boy she had grown up with, who had given her Needle, who had never called her names like Sansa did, never forced her to do anything she didn't want to do. Jon, who was a closer brother to Arya than any of her true brothers, had led an army into battle and _won._

"Thanks for the pie," Arya interrupted her thoughts, quickly standing. Hot Pie stood with her, slightly confused by her sudden change in demeanour. Remembering her manners, Arya dug into her pockets for the few precious pieces of gold she had left.

"Friends don't pay," Hot Pie told her with a slight shake of his head, smiling winningly at her. Despite herself, Arya smiled back. Years had passed, and so much had changed, but at least Hot Pie was still her friend. 

"Can't believe I thought you were a boy, you're pretty!" Hot Pie confided in her, a sudden confidence changing his voice. 

Arya was never pretty. She was always Horseface Arya, always a dirty streetrat named Arry, always plain enough to blend into any crowd like a Faceless Man ought to. She couldn't remember if she ever had been called pretty. The compliment warmed her heart, and the unabashed honesty emanating from Hot Pie comforted her. 

"Thanks," she said, slightly overwhelmed by the situation. Placing a hand on Needle to comfort herself, Arya turned to fully face Hot Pie, allowing some of her emotion to leak into her voice. 

"Take care of yourself, Hot Pie." Suddenly, it was very important to Arya that Hot Pie lived a long, happy life. He deserved that at least. "Try not to get killed."

"Ah, I won't," Hot Pie said with enough bravado that it almost made her chuckle. "I'm like you Arry, I'm a survivor."

 _If only you knew,_ she thought with a sad smile, before she turned away for one final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who tf is Gendry Rivers? i dont know him.
> 
> Also, I refuse to believe that Hot Pie didn't ask about Gendry. Arya, Hot Pie and Gendry were the Ultimate Dream Team and D&D can't convince me otherwise.


	8. The Cold Winds Blow

Once again, Gendry had found himself in a boat. 

Ever since he had stumbled off of the rowboat that had taken him from Dragonstone to King's Landing, delirious and dehydrated, Gendry had sworn to never go near any sea vessel again. 

Yet there he was, leaving Dragonstone, in a boat, _again._

The company this time was somewhat better. 

The men around him were hardy, weary from war yet emboldened by it, and Jon Snow was no exception. 

It was strange, seeing Jon Snow in person for the first time, having only the words of Arya, and the rumors around King's Landing to guide his expectations. He had expected some mighty, diplomatic warrior, who united the Wildlings and led them to a victory in the Battle of the Bastards. He had expected a man larger than life, with a voice like thunder yet a smile as sweet as Spring, who had died and then lived again. Instead, when he entered the caves underneath Dragonstone to meet the King In The North, he found... a man. No more extraordinary in appearance or manner than anyone else. 

_"You're a lot shorter."_

Jon Snow was similar to the few Northerners Gendry had met: he was near impossible to read, he rarely smiled, and his humor was as dry as a King's Landing Summer. But sometimes, Jon would pull certain faces, or would stand a certain way, and Gendry would be reminded of Arya. The moment he had seen Jon, immediately he saw their resemblance. Jon and Arya shared the same chin, the same dark hair, the same small stature, the same haunted eyes. They had the same hard to earn smile, the same strong Northern accent that flowed in Gendry's ears. But Jon Snow was not the boy that Arya had described to him all those years ago by a fire in the Riverlands. No, Jon Snow was a man that had been hardened by life and was plagued by it.

And it twisted a knife in Gendry's gut. 

This man was the half brother of Arya Stark, the girl Gendry had all but left behind, the girl who had probably died a long time ago, cold and alone. 

As they travelled towards The Wall, Gendry pondered this fact in silence, and tried to avoid looking at Jon Snow too much. 

 

\--

 

Arya knew she was nearly home. The smell in the air was familiar, the woods and fields triggered distant memories, and with each step her horse took North, she felt more and more like Arya Stark. Arya had never seen the North in the winter, never seen the trees bare and decrepit, never heard such an immense silence wherever she went. It was peaceful, in it's own way. The once lush woodlands of the North were a bare skeleton of what Arya remembered, but she remembered the trees, remembered chasing Nymeria through them to take her mind off of Bran's fall. The trees were shadows of their former selves, but she remembered them like old friends. It would have appeared as a hostile, inhospitable landscape to anyone else, but Arya felt as if the woods were welcoming her home, pointing her towards Winterfell with their gnarled, wooden fingers. 

When finally she broke through the woodlands into open fields, Arya saw it: the grey walls, the blood red leaves of the Heart Tree, pale smoke rising from the turrets. 

_Home._

Arya pulled on her reigns, forcing her mare to a standstill so she could finally, _finally_ gaze upon Winterfell and take it all in. The sun had risen a few hours ago, fully illuminating Winterfell against the pale skyline. In the woods there had been silence, but now out in the open, the sounds of Winterfell carried across the plains and echoed in Arya's ears faintly. The murmur of people milling about, a faint clanging from the smithy, the trees in the Godswood rustling just so in the icy breeze, the sounds that had once been so familiar landed comfortably in her ears again. 

How long had it been since she had last looked upon the towers and walls of Winterfell? Arya had been fighting, _surviving_ , for so long, the months and years had blurred together. Arya wasn't even sure how old she was anymore. 

For the first time since Arya had left King's Landing with the Night's Watch, Arya felt peace. She was finally where she was supposed to be.

But the grass, the fields, the open plains that surrounded the Winterfell walls were now a wasteland. The once smooth, rolling hills were flattened from the battle. The grass that was now long dead had been churned up under the feet of thousands of soldiers and horses into a sticky, dark mud that had completely frozen over. The snow that had fallen overnight lazily dusted the plains, sticking to the destroyed countryside like sugar on yellow butter.The Battle of the Bastards had been won weeks ago, but the damage from the battle was still visible everywhere Arya looked. 

She urged her horse into a trot, then into a canter, then into a gallop, speeding past the remnants of the battle. She didn't want to dwell on the destruction, all the death and pain, not while her home lay directly in front of her.

Finally, Arya arrived at Winter Town, and unsteadily dismounted her mare. From there she slowly walked through Winter Town towards the gates of Winterfell. No one paid her attention or gave her a second glance, not like they would have when she was a child. Before, the people in Winter Town knew her as Arya Stark, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn, a future lady of the household. Now, Arya looked like every other Northerner seeking shelter from the oncoming Winter. She didn't recognise any of their faces. Leaving her mare in the inn's stables, Arya walked the rest of the slope by herself, nothing but Needle at her side. 

When she came into view of the guards, they stood at attention, regarding her with weariness and suspicion. 

Before she could pass them, they grabbed at her, and she dodged back instinctively.

"Where you goin'?" One of them asked before she could try to push past them again

"In there, I live here," Arya replied, not bothered to explain any further than that. One of them snorted in response, not believing her. Suddenly she was twelve years old again, not being let into the Red Keep because the guards thought she was a boy. 

"I'm Arya Stark, this is my home," Arya explained slowly, ignoring their sniggers. She didn't begin to get angry or start making threats, no, within Arya there was only calm resolve. She was almost inside the walls.

"Arya Stark is _dead_ ," one of the spat, and Arya looked him in the eye then, her chin jutting out ever so slightly. Within the space of a second, No One began bubbling to the surface, and Arya pushed it straight back down again. 

"I'm getting into this castle one way or another," she told them, not breaking eye contact with the guard. "If I'm not who I say I am, I won't last long." Arya took a slow step forward, not blinking as she stared down the guard. She saw the hesitancy flash across his eyes then, tasted his nervousness begin seeping into the air.

"But if I am, and the Lord and Lady of Winterfell discover you turned me away..." Arya subconsciously tilted her head then, just as The Waif used to do in The Game of Faces, and she watched as the guard's eyes widened, finally breaking eye contact with Arya to look to his comrade for help. 

Helplessly, they escorted her through the gates, pointing at an empty cart so she could sit. As they moved away to bicker about what to do about her, Arya took the chance to look about her home, to see the damage that had been inflicted in her absence.

The gates were different from what she remembered, the once intricately carved wooden doors had been replaced by a hasty substitute. The entire interior had changed, most of what she remembered had been cleared away, replaced with open soup kitchens and armouries. But everywhere, the Stark banner fluttered in the faint breeze, heralding the return of the Starks and Winter itself. She wondered what her father would think. 

At the thought of her father, Arya's train of thought shuddered to a stop. She looked over to the two guards, still bickering, and stood. When neither of them noticed, she turned away from the makeshift gates and the two guards and headed towards the crypts, where she somehow knew her father's remains would lay. 

It was there that Sansa found her, slowly approaching Arya as if she were about to start running again. Father's remains were far away from the entrance, leaving Arya with enough time to collect herself before she reunited with her sister. This isn't how she had hoped it would go, she wanted to see Sansa again on her own terms, to see her sister when she was ready, not like this, when her emotions were too open, too vulnerable. But as Sansa quietly approached, Arya readied herself as best as she could. 

"Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?" Arya asked her father's statue, still not ready to face Sansa yet. She felt it, the change in her voice, the walls starting to built up around her heart. She wasn't sure if she was ready to hear her sister's voice-

"Yes," Sansa replied softly. Arya heard the same fear in Sansa's voice, the same nervousness, but there was some humour there as well, some happiness in the darkness of the crypts. That was what hardened her resolve, causing Arya to finally turn away from her father's statue to look at Sansa for the first time in years. The last time Arya had seen Sansa, she was dressed in all her Southern finery, her intricate hair falling gracefully on either side of her neck, and she had been begging Joffrey to not execute their father. The Sansa before her now was quite different. She had grown, far more than Arya had in their time apart; the top of Arya's head barely reached Sansa's chin. Her copper hair was the same shade, but it was longer now, tumbling down her back in a style that reminded Arya of their mother. 

Sansa smiled then, and she looked so much like their mother that Arya's breath froze in her lungs. Arya didn't have time to recover before Sansa closed the distance between the two and pulled Arya into a tight hug. In the back of her mind, Arya was aware that the last person to truly hug her like this had been Father, years ago in King's Landing. Arya had almost forgotten how nice a hug could feel, how pleasant it could feel to have someone simply be nearby. But she couldn't find the strength in her arms to hug Sansa back.

"You shouldn't have run from the guards," Sansa slowly pulled away, but there was still a hint of warmth in her voice. 

"I didn't run," Arya replied, her eyes trained on Sansa's face as she silently committed her face to memory, she had nearly forgotten it in all the years passed. "You need better guards," Arya chided, but it wasn't unkind. It drew a hesitant laugh from Sansa, and Arya smiled briefly in return. 

"It suits you, Lady Stark," Arya took her sister in as best as she could, and she truly meant it. Sansa had grown into a true Lady, with her Northern furs and her fiery Tully hair. Sansa was always going to be good at being a Lady. 

"Jon left you in charge?"

"He did," Sansa confirmed, the smile on her face growing at the mention of Jon. "I hope he comes back soon. I remember how happy he was to see me, when he sees you his heart will probably _stop."_

Arya laughed then, trying to imagine Jon's face as best she could.

"How is he?" Arya couldn't wait. She hadn't imagined Sansa to change so much in the years passed, Arya wondered how much Jon would have changed. A shadow crossed Sansa's face, her smile dropping slightly as she considered her words. 

"I'm not sure. He's..." Sansa trailed off, her thin eyebrows furrowing in thought. "He's still the same Jon we grew up with, but he's... _different_ somehow. I can't explain it."

Arya nodded. That would have to do. 

With nothing left to say, Sansa turned to the statue of their father. Both women regarded his statue in silence, trying to see the connection between the stone in front of them and the flesh and blood memories of their father. 

"It doesn't look like him," Arya murmured, her voice dipping dangerously low. "Should've been carved by someone that knew his face."

"Everyone who knew his face is dead," Sansa replied, her tone eerily similar to Arya's. 

Arya looked up at Sansa, saw her resemblance to their mother, but also the chin that all the Stark children had inherited from their father. 

"We're not."

_Not today._

Sansa smiled sadly at Father's statue, her eyebrows drawing together.

"How did you get back to Winterfell?" Sansa wanted to change the subject, for which Arya was glad. The conversation was getting increasingly emotional, and Arya wasn't ready to be vulnerable, not yet. 

"It's a long story," Arya drew herself away from the block of stone that was meant to resemble her father, instead focusing on her living, breathing family. "I imagine yours is too."

Sansa lingered on the statue for an extra beat before she turned away, the sadness that had previously marred her pretty features immediately disappearing with trained ease.

"Yes. It's not a very pleasant story."

Arya knew some aspects of it, hearing bits and pieces along the King's Road. Sansa had been married to Ramsay Bolton, and before that, The Imp. Neither of the two men sounded like very pleasant matches to Arya. But she heard the pain underneath Sansa's voice, so Arya attempted to comfort her as best she could. 

"Mine neither, but our stories aren't over yet."

Sansa smiled softly again, her eyes betraying her sadness. "No, they're not, are they?"

Arya felt her sister's sadness as acutely as she felt her own. Sansa, who Arya had tried to hate when she was a child, was as destroyed by the world as Arya was, she could hear it in her voice, see it in the coldness of Sansa's eyes. So without thinking, Arya threw her arms around Sansa's shoulders and pulled her close. Sansa's arms immediately rose and wrapped around her, and Arya felt safer than she had felt in years. 

 

\--

 

_There's something strange about that Littlefinger._

In the short few days she had been back at Winterfell, Arya had noticed something very peculiar about Lord Baelish. He watched Sansa, and not in a way that Arya liked. Littlefinger watched Sansa like he was starving for her, like a wolf would haunt the steps of a deer. It was clear that Littlefinger wanted Sansa, and it sent a shock of goosebumps up Arya's spine everytime she thought about it. 

Once, when Lady Brienne had something else to attend to, she had left her squire to spar with Arya instead. Podrick was a decent enough fighter, and when they would have a short break from sparring, Arya found herself quizzing him about who was in Winterfell, and questioning him about Littlefinger. 

Podrick's ears had flamed red when she first spoke directly to him without the presence of Brienne, and he had struggled at first to speak directly to her. That had never happened to Arya before. No boy had ever acted that way around Arya, and it sent a curious thrill through her. He wasn't embarrassed to talk to her because she was Arya Stark, he was nervous because he found her _pretty._ She knew it in the way he would stare at her from across the courtyard as she sparred with Brienne, the way his voice would sometimes catch in his throat when they were talking and he would look her in the eye. The first time she had knocked him to the ground while sparring, he had looked up at her from the snow with a look of complete and utter awe, and it had bought a pleasant smile to Arya's face. He was handsome enough, with his dark hair, wide smile and faint smattering of freckles, but she had other things to focus on before she could think of Podrick as anything more than a friend and fellow fighter. However, as the days passed and Arya spent more time with Podrick, and Brienne on occasion, it became easier and easier to talk to him. Whatever infatuation Podrick may have initially had with her faded as quickly as it had arisen, leaving the two with an easy friendship, something Arya had missed since she had separated from Hot Pie and Gendry.

"That Littlefinger, has he been following Sansa like that the entire time she's been back at Winterfell?" Arya asked Podrick one day over a mug of ale. Arya had been sparring with Brienne, but the older lady had been called away again to assist Sansa with something, leaving Podrick at the mercy of Arya's Needle and questions. He scrunched his face up in thought, thinking carefully about his words. 

"As far as I've seen," came his simple reply. "When Lady Brienne and I found them on the King's Road, she was disguised and under Lord Baelish's protection. He seemed adamant about keeping Lady Sansa at his side."

Arya hummed in response, looking out across the courtyard and to the balconies where Sansa stood, speaking with Littlefinger. 

"Why do you ask?"

Arya looked over at Podrick then. His face was still flushed from their brief sparring practise, and his dark hair was dusted with the snow that was steadily falling from the sky. There was a blizzard coming, Arya could feel it in the air, taste the unease that was bothering the horses and causing them to shift restlessly all day. 

"I've met many men like Littlefinger over the years. When men like that follow beautiful girls around, it's rarely because they want to protect them."

Podrick's eyes widened at her words. Both he and Arya turned to look at Littlefinger leaning down to whisper in Sansa's ear, who remained stony faced. 

"Lady Brienne doesn't trust Lord Baelish," Podrick confided in her, his voice dropping carefully to ensure no one else in the courtyard could hear them. 

"I can understand why," Arya's voice hardened. Sansa said something to Littlefinger then, before she turned away. Littlefinger remained where he stood, watching her as she left. 

"I need to head off now, Podrick, I have some things to attend to," Arya stood from the bench they had been sitting at and handed her mug to Podrick, who remained seated. "Make sure when Lady Brienne gets back, you work on your footwork. She might not have noticed it, but you're favouring your right foot too much. One day, that will get you killed."

Podrick nodded enthusiastically and rose to his feet, the same smile that always crossed his face whenever Arya would give him a critique coming to the surface again. 

"Yes m'lady, I'll work on that."

_You wouldn't be my family, you'd be m'lady._

Arya's breath was stolen from her lungs then, Gendry's old nickname for her suddenly flooding her mind with memories from years ago, memories she had fought to suppress during her time in Braavos. Blue eyes like the sea watching her from across a fire, strong hands helping her up onto carts and across rivers, soldiers taking Gendry away who had long stopped fighting. Arya blinked furiously, trying to push the memories aside. Gendry was dead, cold and rotting in the ground down South. He'd been dead for years. 

"I'm not the Lady of Winterfell. You don't need to call me that," Arya turned away abruptly, not waiting for Podrick to reply. 

No, it wouldn't do to dwell on those who were gone. It only distracted her from the task that was at hand. She had to follow Littlefinger, she had to understand the plot he was no doubt devising behind Sansa's back. Thinking about Gendry would only distract her, as it always did.

 

\--

 

Littlefinger knew Arya was watching him. Sometimes when he spoke to someone in private, his words would sometimes grow louder, ensuring that Arya heard him. He was trying to lure her in, trying to distort her image. 

_He's smart, too smart._

It became a habit of Arya's to shadow Littlefinger. She had yet to speak to the man, but she knew his voice now as well as anyone else's in Winterfell. 

The remaining Stark siblings had begun having dinner together in the privacy of Sansa's chambers, and behind closed doors, while the blizzard raged against the windows, Arya would discuss her findings with Bran and Sansa. The three of them had agreed to allow Littlefinger's plan to pan out, they needed to understand what he was trying to do before they could do anything else. Jon wasn't there to help them, they needed to figure out the puzzle by themselves.

At first, Sansa had been uncertain about Arya following Littlefinger, didn't want to believe the man that had helped rescue her from King's Landing might have any other motive. But sweet Sansa was smarter than Arya remembered, she had learnt to think ahead, to think of the motives of others as easily as she considered her own. 

And Sansa was hiding something, Arya knew it in the way Sansa would sometimes tense up when Littlefinger got too close to her, the way she would sometimes grow distant when Littlefinger was brought up. 

Arya asked Sansa the question a few days after her conversation with Podrick, waiting for the time when they were in the privacy of Sansa's chambers and Bran was in the Godswood. The question had been plaguing her since she had first seen Littlefinger staring at Sansa. 

"Has Littlefinger ever hurt you, Sansa?"

Sansa looked up from her soup, her expression distorting in unease. Sansa had retired for the night, and Arya had brought up two bowls of soup from the kitchens for them to share. Sansa wasn't wearing her Lady attire, her furs and chains arranged neatly on her bed. Needle wasn't on Arya's hip, instead she had taken off her belt and left it on one of Sansa's chairs. Sansa's hair was down, her face free of any makeup, and in that moment she was completely open with Arya. And Arya supposed she was completely vulnerable to Sansa as well. 

Sansa shook her head, her eyes closing in thought. 

"He's never hurt me," was her reply, "not like Ramsay or Joffrey."

Sansa had shared some of her story with Arya in moments like these, and Arya had told her about parts of Braavos in return. She knew what Sansa was referring to, but her answer confused her. 

"But he has done _something,_ hasn't he?"

After a moments hesitation, Sansa slowly nodded, and Arya felt her rage begin to grow, her veins began singing with the heat of her growing wrath. 

"He's told me many times that he used to love Mother, and I believe he thinks of me like he used to think of her," Sansa continued, stirring her soup to avoid looking at Arya. 

"He's kissed me twice."

Arya winced at her words, feeling her sister's discomfort. 

"And you didn't want him to?"

"No, I didn't want him to" Sansa replied immediately, her voice firm. There was no lie in her voice. 

"At first it confused me, I didn't understand why he did it. Then when he pushed Aunt Lysa through the Moon Door to protect me, and I think I finally understood."

Arya nodded, pushing her anger down. Now wasn't the time to be angry, or to make grand plans to kill Littlefinger. 

"He's so _old,"_ Arya told her sister, her nose wrinkling in disgust. That drew a laugh from Sansa as easily as it drew one from Arya. 

"His moustache wasn't very pleasant, I can tell you that now," Sansa replied, her voice rising in amusement. Arya hastily shushed her, but it only made the two sisters laugh harder. It felt nice, to share moments like this with Sansa. It was moments like this that Arya had missed out on growing up, too busy hating her sister to bother trying to connect with her. 

So Arya enjoyed the moment, despite the strange situation. She never wanted the small amount of happiness that had grown between her and Sansa to disappear. 

 

\--

 

"Are you alright?"

Arya had to ask. Sansa's emotions were tumultuous, as stormy as the sea and as dark as any void. She wasn't thinking anything, Arya could tell, she was only feeling. 

"It's just strange," Sansa's voice trembled slightly, but the emotion that had coloured her voice red in the main hall was now gone, now there was something Arya couldn't quite place, something she doubted Sansa understood herself. "In his own horrible way, I believed he loved me."

"You did the right thing," Arya offered softly, doing her best to comfort her. She never had been good at this, comforting other people, but she wanted to try for Sansa. She wanted to make up for all the lost time, the years they had been apart, the weeks in Winterfell spent watching Littlefinger, so much precious time was lost and gone. 

"You're the one that did it," Sansa stated, her voice echoing the same petulant girl Arya had once known, and it twisted something deep inside her chest. 

_Yes, Arya was the one that did it._

"I'm just the executioner, you passed the sentence. You're the Lady of Winterfell." Arya realised then there was a bitterness in her voice, a sadness she had forgotten she had. Arya was the executioner, silent justice being carried out. It was what she had been for years. Once, she had been so much more than that, but she had lost so much of herself. The Winterfell air was still around them, the blizzard that had been raging had finally ceased during the night. It was quiet, so quiet. 

"Does that bother you?" Sansa asked with gentle sincerity. Arya wasn't sure what Sansa was referring to, Arya being the executioner, or Sansa being the Lady of Winterfell. Once, Sansa being Lady of Winterfell would have bothered her, a childlike competitiveness forcing Arya to hate what she couldn't have. Once, the idea of bringing justice would have delighted her, and it still did, but it was different now. It was all so much colder. 

"I was never going to be as good a lady as you," Arya told her simply, her face creasing into the beginnings of a bittersweet smile. 

"So I had to become something else."

There it was again, that same iciness worming it's way into her heart. Arya was alone, she had been for years. But so had Sansa. 

"I never could have survived what you did, Sansa." Arya had always been the survivor, always clawed her way through each day so she could see the sun rise again. But Sansa, sweet Sansa, who always used to hunch over her sewing to ensure her stitches were perfect, who would eat sweets after supper, had survived something too. Arya saw it, in the way Sansa completely covered herself from the neck down, refusing to reveal herself to anyone. She heard it in the coldness of Sansa's voice, the way she distanced herself from others, the way she now braided her hair to resemble any Northern warrior, but left her long, copper tresses loose along her back to maintain an air of regality. Yes, Sansa was a survivor, she had fought just as much as Arya had. There was a quiet respect growing between the two women, two survivors of different, unspeakable horrors that would likely haunt them for the rest of their lives. 

"You would have," it was Sansa's turn to comfort her now, "you're the strongest person I know."

The words almost drew a laugh from Arya then. Never, in Arya's grandest delusions and dizziest day dreams, had she imagined Sansa would compliment her. Yet here they both stood, the two remaining women of House Stark, looking out across the frozen wastes that had once been so familiar, with words of respect and comfort rather than nastiness and hate. 

"I believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Sansa laughed with her, a quiet chuckle that caused her breath to freeze in clouds in front of her face. Arya let herself laugh, let herself bask in a moment of unexpected happiness that she had been sure she would never experience again. 

"Well don't get used to it," Sansa said as she turned to face the frozen fields again, the humor not leaving her voice. "You're still very strange, and annoying."

There it was, the insult Arya had been waiting for. But it didn't sting, not like it once would have. No, the two women had both been through enough to know that such soft words held no true poison.

 _"In Winter we must protect ourselves, look after one another,"_ Arya quoted Father then, her heart twisting sadly in her chest. He would have been proud to see them, standing together as equals, recognising that they were stronger together as a united front, rather than as individuals. 

"Father," Sansa mused, her own sadness colouring her voice. _"When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."_

Arya laughed softly, hearing Sansa's words in Father's own voice. She never had properly grieved for her Father, too worried about surviving, too worried about blending in, to properly sit down and _grieve._ But now was the time. Sansa was there, she could be vulnerable with Sansa.

"I miss him," Arya murmured, allowing her grief to colour her voice, her sadness to bring tears to her eyes for the first time since she was a child. She never had a chance to mourn any of her family, she had always been on the run. But now, she was home, she didn't need to run anymore, and her sister was by her side. 

"Me too," Sansa replied. 

Arya allowed herself to grieve, allowed herself to bask in her sadness, because Sansa was grieving too. 

They didn't know how long they stood there, on the battlements of Winterfell, grieving for all that they had lost, together as a family. 

Arya wasn't alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo Season 8 was fucked lol. But don't worry, I'm gonna fix that shit to the best of my abilities.
> 
> Also, I refuse to believe the whole "Sansa is scared of Arya/Arya wants to kill Sansa" thing they had going on in Season 7 simply to shock everyone when Littlefinger was executed.They only brought it in to make Littlefinger's death a 'shocking twist' and it makes me angry that this was the route they chose. Arya + Sansa are the ultimate bros and i'll accept no less. Game of Thrones needed more sister moments between Arya and Sansa and that's that on that fuk u D&D. 
> 
> Also, Arya + Podrick are the ultimate brotp but Podrick was lowkey in love wit Arya the first time he saw her no you cannot change my mind
> 
> Also, thankyou so much for your support and your kind words. It's really difficult to write a fic about characters that have literally not seen or talked with eachother for a solid four seasons? so thankyou to everyone for supporting me with this messy, messy, self indulgent fic. I kind of wanted to explore a little bit more of Arya this chapter, as her reunion with most of her siblings and her return to Winterfell is a major point in her character arc that also later affects her relationship with Gendry. But finally, the dream team is gonna be reunited next chapter. Get keen folks!


	9. The Ones Who'd Been Gone For So Very Long

When Jon's letter arrived, informing Arya and Sansa he would be returning North from King's Landing with the Dragon Queen and her armies, preparation had to begin almost immediately. 

Sansa went into a frenzy, angry about the change of events, but flustered by the large workload Jon had placed on her shoulders. She had to make space for The Dragon Queen's armies, organise quarters for the Dragon Queen and her advisers, prepare as large a welcoming banquet as the stores could afford, and expand the armouries to assist with the monolithic task of forging all the mined Dragonglass. They had about three weeks before the Dragon Queen arrived, and Arya could tell her sister was angry, frustrated by Jon's change of heart, so Arya retreated away. She wasn't going to be of any help to the work that was to be undertaken, so she did what she had always done in situations like this: she found ways to occupy herself. 

Arya continued sparring with Brienne and Podrick, but their matches grew shorter and shorter as Brienne was pulled away to war council meetings, and to the battle field where preparations had already began to prepare for the coming of the White Walkers. Podrick often accompanied Brienne, but often he would sit with Arya after they sparred and discuss fighting stances with her, and compare Arya's fighting style to his own. Sometimes, they would compare the blisters and calluses on their hands from their swords, and Arya would note how much bigger Podrick's hands were compared to her own. 

When neither Brienne or Podrick were available, Arya would shoot arrow after arrow into targets and dummies. She had always been good at archery, ever since she was a child, but she had fallen out of practise over the past few years. So for hours, Arya would stand in the shooting range near one of the armouries, multiple quivers of arrows next to her, and shoot them all into her targets. When she ran out, Arya would stride up to the targets and pull them out again, then start over. There were a few days when she did this without break from sunrise to well past sundown. Some soldiers would stop what they were doing and watch her in silence for a little while. She was still a good shot after all these years, but she needed to be better if they were to face an army of the dead. 

Arya had also taken up knife throwing, simply for something different. Arya had quickly grown used to the Valyrian Catspaw Dagger that Bran had given her, but she had never thought to throw it. The weight and balance of the blades were awkward in Arya's hands at first, but so had Needle when Jon had first given it to her. Throwing knives forced Arya to focus, to rely on skill and practise, rather than muscle memory. It helped to take her mind off of the brewing storms on the horizon.

Sansa was too preoccupied with planning to return to their previous ritual of having dinner together, so often Arya found herself alone with Bran, eating supper in comfortable silence with the occasional discussion. Bran wasn't a talker anymore, not like he was as a child, so often their discussions consisted of Arya making odd comments about her day and Bran responding with nods and sometimes a cryptic answer. Whatever he had become in the years since he had fallen had changed him completely, from the inside out. He had lost his Northern accent at some point, but his voice wasn't accentless like the Faceless Men. No, Bran's accent had changed to something far older, far stranger than that of the Faceless Men. His eyes often stared into the distance, seeing something that no one else could see. On the occasions when Bran would 'leave', and his eyes would turn a ghostly shade of white, Arya would be too unnerved to stay with him, but when he came back, something seemed to bother him, weighing him down more than anything else. Arya couldn't read any emotions from Bran anymore, but she thought he was worried about something, concerned about what was to come, and she shared his same unease.

Regardless, Arya found herself alone more and more, readopting her old habits of isolation over the company of others. So when Daenerys Targaryen's armies were spotted on the skyline, the entirety of Winterfell falling into a frenzy, Arya stayed far away, instead choosing to remain amongst the crowds of Winter Town to watch the procession. She didn't want to remain in the courtyard to greet Daenerys Targaryen and her advisors. It wasn't her duty, and she had no interest in the politics that would likely mar her reunion with Jon. Amongst the crowds of commoners, the rabble of children and the barking of dogs, Arya felt at ease.

Somewhere, amongst the seas of Unsullied soldiers that were making their way towards Winterfell, was Jon. Arya's heart fluttered in her chest at the mere thought of seeing her brother again. 

The Unsullied approached Winter Town and passed through, their eyes not drifting from the Winterfell gates. Across the Narrow Sea, Arya had heard tales of the Unsullied, that they had no fear and were near undefeatable in group combat, and she'd heard of the Dragon Queen laying waste to the masters of Astapor to gain the legions of Unsullied. She looked at the soldiers passing through and she knew the rumours were true. 

Soldier after soldier passed through, their dark eyes fixed ahead of them. Arya lost count of the soldiers after 600. She stood on her toes and tried to look South through the oncoming Unsullied, desperate to catch her first glimpse of Jon in years. Instead, her attention was caught by a flash of silver hair held up in braids more intricate than Arya had ever seen. 

Daenarys Targaryen had reached Winterfell. 

Arya had heard tales of Daenarys Targaryen's beauty, her elegance and regality, as well as her ruthlessness in the face of slavery. News of a Targaryen Queen dismantling Slaver's Bay had reached Arya's ears in Braavos a long time ago, which had left Arya with an abundance of time to imagine just what Daenarys Targaryen would look like. Arya supposed her imagination wasn't so far off. With her intricate silver braids, her cold eyes and fair skin, Daenarys was every part the beautiful warrior queen Arya had imagined. If anything, Daenarys was slightly smaller than Arya had expected. But then again, Arya was small as well, and look how many people Arya and Daenarys had killed to answer for injustices.

Arya's eyes drifted away from the Dragon Queen, and her eyes almost skimmed over Jon. If it wasn't for his Northern furs and Direwolf chestplate, Arya probably wouldn't have recognised him. Her heart all but stopped in her chest at the sight. He'd grown his hair long, and had begun tying it up in a similar style to Arya's own hair. Jon sat tall and proud on his horse, staring ahead with an air of noble magnificence that he never had before. As his horse edged closer, Arya could see the collection of scars dotting his face and neck, and she wondered how many more scars he had collected on the Wall. His eyes were dark and focused, his mouth a hard line, but his shoulders were loose and relaxed, Jon was in his element. Arya decided that whatever it was that Jon had become, whether it be the King in The North or a subordinate to the Dragon Queen, it suited him. Arya felt a surge of pride, deep in her chest, as she took in the man her older brother had become. Jon's horse was close enough now that if he looked down, he would be able to see her. 

Her mouth opened with the intention to call out to him, but then The Dragon Queen caught her attention again. She could almost feel the power that Daenarys exuded from where she was standing. 

Jon rode past, his gaze not drifting, completely missing Arya. 

Arya looked down at her feet and swallowed thickly. Now was not the time for reunions. She had seen him, seen her brother, and that would do for now. 

She had intended to return to Winterfell after catching sight of Jon, but when her gaze drifted down the lines of soldiers again, her eyes caught on a familiar scarred face. Jon's letter had mentioned he had travelled beyond The Wall with a group of men, but she had never expected The Hound to be among them. He looked as terrifying as ever, and Arya's heart hardened at the sight. The last time she had seen The Hound, he had been bleeding out in the hills of the Eerie, and she had left him for dead.

Then....

Arya saw him. 

His hair had been cropped short, but Arya would have recognised Gendry anywhere. 

She blinked furiously, momentarily convinced she was dreaming, she _had to be._ She had seen the soldiers take him away, felt the Red Witch's intentions, and she had seen him die in her dreams more times than she could possibly count. 

But when Gendry didn't dissappear, when he edged close enough for Arya to properly see him, something odd shifted within Arya. 

Arya smiled, feeling her heart become so full it almost felt painful. She didn't want to look away from him, because he was alive. He had survived the Red Woman, somehow travelled North, and found his way to Winterfell. It was almost as good as being reunited with her family. Because Arya knew, deep down within her, in the shadows of her thoughts and memories, that Gendry was still her family, he always had been. 

His face was still the same, but he was no longer the boy Arya remembered. Despite the furs he was bundled up in, Arya could see Gendry had grown stronger. But his eyes... his eyes hadn't changed, she could tell even from a distance. For how long had those same eyes haunted her waking moments, as well as her dreams?

Gendry hadn't seen her, his horse passing her just as brusquely as Jon's had. 

Arya began to retreat then. She needed privacy and quiet to process Jon and Gendry's return. She wasn't going to follow them into Winterfell as she had initially intended, her emotions were too loud, too unrestrained. She was going to find them when she was ready, when she wouldn't burst into tears at the mere sound of their voices. But she was stopped by a sound like thunder ricocheting through the skies. They were wing beats, and they echoed against the walls of Winterfell like the wrath of the gods. A mighty shriek like death tore through the skies then, and the men and women around her cowered in fear, but not Arya. She stood tall, staring up at the skies with wonder as the two dragons flew overheard, just like from the old songs Sansa used to love. 

The two dragons disappeared quickly, but the sounds of their shrieks and trills carried through the air as they continued North, circling around and around where they knew their mother was. 

Arya retreated then, past the throngs of people still staring up at the skies in terror, and disappeared into the shadows with trained ease. 

The procession had halted briefly in Winterfell as Sansa likely greeted Daenarys and her advisors, then began breaking off outside the walls on orders to begin making camp in the frozen fields surrounding Winterfell. Arya quietly trailed along behind the last few stragglers that continued within the walls before the gates could close, sticking close to the shadows to avoid attention. By the time she had entered the courtyard, Sansa had already urged the procession within the Great Hall out of the cold, taking Jon and Daenarys with her. 

Arya quietly retreated to her chambers without so much as a word to anyone. She carefully locked her door, double checked it, then collapsed into her chair by the hearth with a huff. 

_No one shall disturb me here._

The only sound was a distant howling of the wind through the trees of the Godswood and the crackling of the fire, and Arya allowed her mind to clear and become as still as water. She didn't want to think anymore, didn't want to remember, she just wanted to be alone, in the muted peace of her chambers, where she didn't need to keep up any walls or talk to anyone.

In the end, it only took a couple of hours for Arya to start looking for Jon. It had been years, and Arya never had been known for her patience after all. 

The noise of life inside Winterfell crashed over Arya like a vicious wave the moment she left the serenity of her chambers, leaving her dizzy with the sudden onslaught of noise. Instinctively, Arya drew close to the walls and discretely rushed through the corridors, her eyes darting inside rooms and through windows as she tried to locate Jon. Down in the Great Hall, all the hearths were being attended and built to prepare for the small welcoming banquet Sansa had arranged, but Jon wasn't there. Arya darted through every corridor, checked every courtyard and battlement for Jon. 

It was only when she was standing outside the entrance of the Godswood, an icy breeze sweeping her hair behind her, did Arya realise how redundant her search had been. Jon was like her, he always had been, after the noise of the road and the return to Winterfell, he would have been desperate for some quiet as well. Where else in Winterfell was quieter than the Godswood?

She silently entered, treading lightly through the snow to minimise the noise of her footsteps. As she ventured deeper and deeper into the Godswood towards the Heart Tree, the noises of Winterfell faded away into nothingness, and the air grew still under the weight of the gods that resided there. High above, the wind danced through the leaves, but down below the air felt as if it hadn't been disturbed in a life time. When finally the red leaves of the Heart Tree began peeking through the canopy, Arya slowed, circling wide of the clearing to approach from the thicket rather than the main path. She wanted to see Jon again, see his face before she heard his voice. 

He was facing away from her, his head bowed towards the Heart Tree in quiet contemplation, and Arya tried to connect the man before her to the boy she used to know. From the back, he bore a striking resemblance to their father. A memory stirred in Arya's subconsciousness then, of her Father sitting beneath the Heart Tree as Jon did now, quietly polishing Ice; the Godswood had been green then, and the rest of her family still alive. Arya pushed the memory away: now wasn't the time to remember those who were dead and gone, not while her lost brother sat in front of her, oblivious to her scrutiny. 

He hadn't grown much in their years apart. She had always remembered Jon as tall, but now she realised she had simply been small. 

"You used to be taller."

He jumped at her voice, his hand falling to his sword as he turned. But the moment he saw her, his face softened. 

"How did you sneak up on me?" His voice was weary, far hoarser than she remembered, but there was a gladness stirring in his voice that sounded like it was rarely used. 

"How did you survive a knife in the heart?" she replied, her voice barely shaking. 

Arya had heard the stories, of course she had, just like every Northerner that was still breathing. She'd heard of the great Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, who had become the second youngest Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at just twenty-one years, and been stabbed in the heart by his own men for allowing the Wildlings to freely cross The Wall. Jon Snow, who had led the Stark armies in the Battle of The Bastards and _won,_ who had fought and killed White Walkers, who had been crowned King In The North, who now stood in front of her, very much alive. He looked far older than his twenty-four years. 

He shrugged sheepishly, that same boyish spark in his eyes that she remembered so fondly coming to light with a smile, "I didn't."

Something broke in her then, the dam she had carefully constructed over the years burst in an instant, and she allowed her heart to become so full it almost hurt. She smiled, her first real smile in years, and she broke into a run, her voice catching in a soft sob. He ran towards her as well, and when she lept into his arms, he caught her as easily as he had when they were still children. For a moment, they just held onto eachother as tightly as they could, her face buried in his furs as she pushed back tears. He smelt like horses, leather, Weirwood leaves and something so familiar that Arya recognised simply as _home._ His joy was her own, and it painted the air and made everything warmer. 

"You came back... came back home," he mumbled into her shoulder, not yet pulling away, not yet believing she was real. Arya laughed shakily, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears. 

"Of course I did," Arya reluctantly pulled back to look into his dark eyes that mirrored her own, "my family is here, _you're_ here. This is where I belong."

He smiled widely at her and pulled away to properly look at her. 

"You've bloody _grown,_ Arya," Jon laughed, then his eyes caught on Needle at her hip, his eyes darting to hers in surprise. 

"You still have it?"

Arya smiled, reverently pulling Needle from her belt and presenting it to him. He looked down at the blade, the same reverence painting his own features. 

"I can still remember having it made for you," he murmured, his eyes going distant for a moment before his gaze returned to her own, his voice becoming playful. "Have you ever used it?"

_The Stable Boy in King's Landing. Polliver. Rorge. The Waif._

Arya's smile fell slightly as the names unwittingly sprung into her head. 

"Once or twice," she replied. He didn't need to know about that for the moment.

He noticed her discomfort, the change in her tone, he always did. His brows furrowed, and the happiness slid from his face, his eyes filling with weariness again. 

"Where've you been hiding all these years?" He asked softly, his voice lowering in concern. "All these years you've been missing... Everyone thought you were dead, Arya."

Arya looked down at her feet so she didn't need to look at those eyes that were so similar to Father's, so similar to her own. She couldn't lie to him, not now and not ever.

"I'm here now, aren't I? The rest isn't important anymore," she didn't look at him as she spoke, and she felt the same iciness creeping into her voice, the hold of the Faceless Men pulling at her words and making them their own. 

_A Girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell._

Jon regarded her for a moment, then nodded, understanding her discomfort and moving past it. He had his own ghosts, his own nightmares that lurked in the shadows of his mind, he understood her quietness without any more words. 

"What about before then? I could've used your help with Sansa."

Arya winced and finally looked back up at Jon, her nose wrinkling slightly. "She doesn't like your Queen, does she?"

Jon laughed and shook his head fondly. "Sansa doesn't trust anyone except our family anymore, and I think after everything that's happened she's allowed that. I would have been a fool if I had expected her to take to Daenarys straight away."

"She's the smartest person I've ever met," Arya replied, her own fondness for her sister softening her voice to a whisper. "I think if she's going to trust her, she'll do so on her own terms when she's ready, if that ever happens."

Jon nodded to himself and shifted, glancing at her sideways. 

"And what about you? What do you think about her?"

Arya took a deep breath, her chin pushing out ever so slightly. "I know the stories about Her Grace. I know she's done a lot of good for the people across the Narrow Sea, and I know she's burnt a lot of people to get where she is today. I don't know her, Jon," Arya sniffed, her hands finding Needle, "but the last time there was a dispute over the Crown of The Seven Kingdoms, many members of our family ended up dying. I think we should all be careful, because Winter is _here,_ Jon, and it's brought war with it. But the war that's going to follow, the one we never saw coming, it's going to be just as bloody as the last war for the Iron Throne."

Jon considered her words, and then smiled sadly at her.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"For all our sake's, brother, I pray it doesn't."

\--

Arya never meant to start shadowing Gendry around Winterfell. 

Gendry had begun working in the forges, day and night, for the past three days. She always stayed far enough away that he wouldn't see her, but she stayed close enough to see the shape of his hands, the hard lines of his back, the tension that painted his face as he crafted arrow head after arrow head, axe after axe, knife after knife. She knew he had seen the dead armies, she'd heard the rumors around Winterfell, and she could see the ghosts that haunted Gendry's every movement. He was terrified, terrified of what he had seen beyond The Wall, frightened by what was steadily making it's way South. So he worked from before the sun went up and long after the sun went down, and Arya found herself transfixed by it. 

Gendry had changed in the years he'd been gone, and not just in his appearance. He moved with a confidence he didn't have before, there was a surety in each swing of his hammer and each step he took. Arya remembered watching him in the forge of Harrenhal when they were both still children, how he tested every sword and breastplate he made to ensure it's strength. Now, Gendry didn't stop to check, years of practise and skill evident in every single weapon he made. 

The boy Arya remembered from all those years ago was long gone, and had been replaced by a man far more confident and handsome. At first, Arya didn't know whether or not she liked his short hair, but she quickly grew used to it; it emphasised his strong jawline and brought attention to his flickering eyes. A rough stubble adorned his chin, and there was a small pair of matching, circular scars above his collarbones that hadn't been there before. He had grown far stronger since she had last seen him, but he hadn't grown any taller. If Arya was to stand in front of him, she wouldn't have to crane her neck to look him in the eyes like she once would have. 

In Braavos, Arya had met many more Red Women, preaching in front of crowds, their voices echoing across the waters of Ragman Harbour with prophecies of darkness and death. The Waif had sneered down at Arya once and told her about The Lord of Light, what the fire worshippers did to the men they sacrificed. Arya wondered what The Red Woman had done to Gendry, what type of torture had been inflicted upon him in the name of a god. She wondered a great many things.

But she never approached him, never spoke about him with Sansa or Jon, never ventured into the forges themselves in case she ran into him. Arya supposed she still wasn't ready for that, not quite yet. Once, Arya would have killed for Gendry, so why was she so worried about approaching him now in her own home? 

Her thoughts had grown muddled, confused by his sudden appearance in Winterfell. She had believed Gendry to be dead for _years,_ but now he was back and Arya couldn't look at him without seeing his helpless eyes disappearing into the hands of the Red Witch. So she kept her distance, let herself grow used to seeing his face again before she approached him. 

They had been separated for years, what was another day or two?

So she stayed away, watching the boy she had once probably been in love with, and thought about the world ending. 

Bran had been watching the Night King's Army slowly advancing upon The Wall every day. He seldom revealed what he saw, only ever talking in cryptic riddles and confusing jargon that had quickly begun to annoy Arya. Bran might be the Three Eyed Raven, but he was also her little brother. Arya felt it was now her duty to remind Bran he was being a dramatic little shit as often as she could, which only seemed to encourage him. When she wasn't shadowing Gendry, Arya frequently found Bran in odd places in Winterfell, watching everyone around him but not truly seeing. Bran was always far away, keeping track of the Dead as they steadily approached The Wall, but Arya decided that Bran was unimpressed by the plans being made in Winterfell. 

While Jon was preparing Winterfell for a great battle, Bran and Sansa were bracing for a seige. The walls of Winterfell would not fall easily, but if the battle was drawn out, the stores would become quickly depleted under the stress of three armies, the entire population of Winterfell and Wintertown, as well as Daenarys Targaryen's dragons. 

_If the dead don't kill us, we'll all probably starve anyway._

Gendry had been making arrow heads all day, and Arya had decided these were the best ones yet. Her thoughts were interrupted, however, by The Hound entering her field of vision. 

_She was fifteen again, holding a rock over The Hound's head with the intention to smash his skull. She had just gotten Needle back, and driven it through Polliver's throat. Mother, Robb and Aunt Lysa just died. She couldn't remember her last substantial meal. The Hound was bleeding out amongst the hills, his gold weighing heavily in her hands, his screams of desperation and pain following her as she left him to die._

_"And that's what you're doing? Watching over her?" "Aye, that's what I'm doing."_

Her feet carried her forward, out of the shadows and into the forge. She trailed behind him, his lumbering gait as familiar as her own. Her hands gripped at Needle at her side, anchoring her in the storms that threatened to capsize her fragile thoughts. He was picking up a weapon from Gendry, a fine war axe that she had watched Gendry slave over. 

"It isn't easy making a blade that big with dragonglass," Gendry handed the axe to The Hound, his pride clear in his voice. Arya smiled, despite herself. 

_Once, he struggled to make a balanced longsword. He should be proud of making a weapon like that._

"You're saying you're good, is that it?" The Hound growled, his voice echoing in Arya's ears for the first time in years, and she shivered. 

_"Go on, girl. Another name off your list, you kept promising me."_

Arya had forced herself to forget many painful things over the years, but leaving The Hound behind had scarred her mind more than any blade ever could. 

"You know who makes weapons for the wildlings? Cripples and cocksuckers. Which one are you?"

There. There was that same rage Arya used to feel when she was fifteen, when The Hound criticised Syrio Forel, or Robb, or Father, or anything that was important to her. He was nothing more than a bitter, scarred old man, why had he decided he needed to be a cunt all the time?

Arya stepped out of the shadows she had been listening from, her hand holding tightly onto Needle now. Gendry stood up for her once, years ago, what type of friend would she be if she wouldn't stand by him now?

"Leave him be."

She felt Gendry's eyes on her then, and she had to force herself to not look back, to not twitch under his gaze. She _desperately_ wanted to look at him, meet his eyes again as she once did. But The Hound had begun to approach her, now on the defensive like she was. 

"I heard you were here," he murmured lowly, stopping in front of her. She glared up at him, refusing to step backwards. 

"You left me to die." 

The Hound's voice was dangerously low now, unspoken words hanging menacingly in the air. But she didn't fear him, not like she once would have. 

"First I robbed you."

The Hound regarded her thoughtfully, his demeanour unchanging. Then his mouth drew back and Arya steeled herself for the insult that was about to be thrown at her. 

"You're a cold little bitch, aren't you?" he hissed, but there wasn't much anger behind his words. No, there was something familiar that was twisting his voice, something far softer and gentler than Arya had come to expect from The Hound. "Guess that's why you're still alive."

He walked past her without another word, and Arya turned to watch him. In his own strange way, The Hound used to care for Arya, had watched over her when everyone else was gone. Arya supposed in her own way, she had cared about him as well, enough to take him off of her list in the end. 

She took a moment to fortify herself before she turned back to Gendry, whose gaze had never swayed from her. He was confused by her conversation with The Hound, she could see it in the furrow of his brow. But he was also looking at her, _truly_ looking at her, and it set her skin on fire. It was similar to the way that Podrick would sometimes glance at her, but Gendry's attention was far deeper, far more emotional, because he _knew_ her; knew her just as well as her flesh and blood family. But Gendry had seen Arya in one of her most terrible states, far more so than the rest of The Starks, yet still he looked at her like he used to, even after all these years. 

This wasn't how she had planned to reunite with Gendry.

"That was a nice axe you made for him," Arya began, the calmness of her voice surprising even her. "You've gotten better."

Gendry's mouth quirked, and the air shifted. She was different from what he remembered, and his gaze drifted before he could stop it, taking as much of her in as he could. 

"Thanks," Gendry replied, shifting on his feet as he stared at her, "so have you." His eyes widened at his own words, as if they had taken him by surprise, and his voice rose slightly in pitch as he continued. "I mean, you look... good, fine actually."

Arya considered him and his words, trying desperately to wade through the sudden awkwardness that painted the air.

"Thanks, so do you."

Gendry stared at her, his mouth hanging open slightly. She stared back, enjoying the way the flames played on his blue eyes and danced across the sweat on his brow. 

He turned away to face one of his workbenches, but not before she saw his eyes widen to himself, his private thoughts playing across his face. He began picking up knives at random and pretended to inspect them, but Arya had watched him work for days, and for weeks back in Harrenhal, she knew when he was distracted. But what stumped her was the fact that he was distracted by _her,_ so thrown by her that he had stumbled over his words like she had seen countless men do when they looked at beautiful women. 

"It's not a bad place to grow up, if it wasn't so cold." Gendry's voice betrayed him, he was _nervous._ He was trying to change the subject, take his attention away from her. Arya smirked to herself, slowly circling around to approach him. 

"Best stay close to that forge if it bothers you that much."

She now had a perfect view of his face, and could see he had started smiling wickedly to himself. The sight made her heart skip. She had missed that smile. 

"Is that a command, Lady Stark?" She could tell he was watching her from the corner of his eye, and his smile widened even further when he saw her face twist in disgust at the title. 

"Don't call me that," Arya snapped without much anger. She felt like she was a child again, and Gendry was teasing her on the King's Road for complaining about her sore feet.

He laughed softly to himself, the familiarity of the situation not lost on him either, and he slowly turned to meet her eye, "As you wish, My Lady."

His words stopped her thoughts altogether. He had to be teasing her, but there was also something about the way that Gendry had just spoken that sent her head spinning. His voice had dropped deep, and his smile had made his words lilted and pleasant in Arya's ears. How many times had he called her that before? She should be used to it by now, so why was she reacting so differently? She wasn't just happy, she was near _overcome with giddiness,_ and she smiled winningly up at him before she tilted her head down, her cheeks flushing slightly as she grinned down at her worn boots. 

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Arya asked, still smiling pleasantly. She couldn't remember ever feeling like this, entirely giddy and like a dancing group was performing inside her belly. She didn't dislike the feeling.

Gendry scoffed to himself, but his smile didn't leave his face altogether. "Last time I saw you, you..." Gendry trailed off then when his eyes caught on Needle, his eyes widening in shock. 

"You got it back?"

Arya looked down at Needle, her hands instinctively grasping at it's pommel. It had been a long time ago that Polliver had taken it from her. 

"Surprised you remember it," Arya admitted, her nose scrunching at the memory of the night. But Gendry's smile widened at her words, and she found herself transfixed by the movement of his lips. 

"How could I forget? It was the night you _saved_ my sorry arse from those Lannister bastards," Gendry laughed, his Flea Bottom accent suddenly extremely prominent. Oh, she had missed that accent _terribly._

But talking about Needle reminded her then of the parchment that sat heavily in the pocket of her coat. 

"I have something for you," Arya blurted, rummaging in her pockets. "I have a request for you," Arya clarified at his confused head tilt, finally retrieving the folded parchment from the depths of her coat. She gingerly unfolded it and passed it to him. It wasn't a very good drawing, but she was sure he would be able to understand it. Within the first day of watching Gendry work in the forges, she knew he was good, good enough to make her a weapon. It was all well and good to train at throwing knives and shooting arrows, but she needed a weapon that she was comfortable with using in close combat should the need arise, and there was no weapon better suited to her than the sparring stick Arya had trained with when she was blind. Arya had been able to use that stick with deadly precision when she didn't have her sight, and it was probably going to be incredibly dark during the Long Night. She needed something she was confident to use in close range combat in limited lighting, something that would allow her to engage multiple enemies at once. The spear Arya had hastily drawn while watching Gendry was the closest practical thing Arya could think of that resembled her prized sparring stick from Braavos. 

"Can you make it?"

Gendry stared down at the parchment, his confusion growing as the wheels turned in his head. 

"What do you need something like this for?" He asked her quietly, looking up at her. 

"Can you make it or not?" She repeated impatiently. 

"You've already got Needle, and what's that?" he gestured towards the Catspaw Dagger. She gingerly pulled it from it's sheath and handed it to him, the pommel facing towards him. His eyebrows shot upwards as he almost snatched the dagger from her in his excitement. "This is _Valyrian Steel."_

He took a moment to test the balance and flexibility of the blade, before he smirked playfully at her. 

"I always knew you were just another rich girl," he remarked sarcastically, but his eyes had started growing fond again. 

Arya brushed the comment off, and impatiently snatched the blade back, returning it back to it's sheath. 

She glanced innocently up at him, the barest of smiles gracing her mouth. 

"You don't know any other rich girls, Gendry," she remarked coyly. 

She took a moment for her words to sink in before she turned and walked away. She could feel his gaze on her, and before she could think about it, she spun as she walked to face him again. His mouth was hanging open, but his eyebrows were quirked suggestively at her. She smirked back at him, and spun away, striding out of the forges with a faint blush high on her cheekbones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Really Don't Like how much of Arya's character development got skipped in the show. Like, we only ever saw her sparring + practising with Needle and a stick in Braavos, when did she learn how to throw knives properly? Why did D+D decide Arya should be a murderous robot who only thinks about killing and death? Regardless, I love the image of Arya anxiously shooting arrows and teaching herself to throw knives in the weeks she's back at Winterfell to take her mind off of things. Arya is a fantastic character and I hate how she's been butchered. Arya is a multidimensional character, she can feel stabby while also experiencing emotion, thankyou v much. 
> 
> And idk, I feel like Season 8 was missing so much perfectly reasonable Gendrya content (among other things). There was so much potential there to have Gendry and Arya sit down and TALK about everything that had happened, without impacting upon the plot progression. Some amount of time obviously passes between Dany arriving at Winterfell and the Night King attacking, and D+D tried to convince me that Arya and Gendry only interacted those 2 times for 10 seconds, and then fucked? Nah sister. Gendry and Arya are in Love Love. As a result, this fic has become increasingly selfish, because this is the character interactions + growth that I WANT to see. So fuk u D+D. 
> 
> This fic has also quickly become a retelling of what I personally think seasons 7+8 should have been, or what it was INTENDED to be but simply didn't have enough episodes/good enough writing to reach a satisfying conclusion. I personally like the idea of a more drawn out Winter, and a Long Night that lasts months like Old Nan described in Season 1. Something about the whole invasion of the Dead just felt so Rushed in season 8, so I intend to draw it out a lot longer. This will remain Gendrya centric, but since GoT was so huge to me, I don't feel justified in retelling Gendrya without retelling many aspects of this largely disappointing final season. Wish me luck gang, and again, thank you so much for continuing to support and put up with my rants and 5000+ word chapters, it's just I have So Much To Say.


	10. But Until Peace, The Storm

Gendry rarely saw Arya. 

He was always working, always too busy to keep an eye out for her. Whenever he did manage to spot her, it was always in passing as she hurried past the forge, doing whatever it was that she did. Sometimes, she would catch his eye and share a secret smile with him, before disappearing. He wondered where it was that she disappeared to, where it was that she was always rushing towards. 

He had been counting Dragonglass blades, and the thought of Arya passing the forge, smiling at him with her eyebrows mischievously quirked, made his hand slip on the blade he was holding, causing it to fall back to his workbench with a clatter. He'd lost count, he realised with a sigh, gingerly picking up the dropped blade to inspect for any damage. He needed to stop doing that. 

The men around Winterfell and in the forge had been talking about Arya, and how could he not listen? The things they said about her confused him. 

On one hand, they talked about how vicious and cold she was, how she had quickly and efficiently executed some well known Lord in the Great Hall with her Valyrian Dagger, her face void of any emotion as his blood spilled across the stones. They secretly murmured that she was the one who had killed The Freys, that she was the one who had poisoned King Joffrey, all as revenge for her family. They talked about her riding into Winterfell on a pale horse and slipping past the guards with ease, about disappearing into shadows. Gendry thought about Arya lunging at The Hound with a knife in the Brotherhood Cave, and he partially believed it. 

But some of the older men, who had lived in the North their entire lives, noted Arya's striking resemblance to her aunt, Lyanna Stark. Many men in Winterfell had solemnly agreed that Arya Stark was a true Northern Beauty, with many watching her as she walked the corridors and battlements of Winterfell. In fact, Gendry had noted that many men had noticed Arya Stark, the same way that he had.

Arya had changed a great deal in the years since he had last seen her. Maybe it was the fact her hair was longer, maybe it because she was wearing clothes that actually fit her, or maybe it was because she wasn't covered in dirt and grime, but whenever Gendry saw Arya, he couldn't help but notice how inconspicuously beautiful she was. She resembled her older sister somewhat, but she wasn't devastatingly beautiful like Lady Sansa. Both women exuded the same coldness, the same power and intelligence, but much of the resemblance ended there. No, while Lady Sansa was unapologetically stunning, all soft lines, long hair and fair skin, Arya was charmingly alluring, with her dark, knowing eyes, upturned nose and quick mouth. Sometimes, he would see the two sisters walking together, Lady Sansa's hands folded neatly at her front, while Arya held onto Needle like any warrior would hold onto their blade, and he would have to force himself to not stare. 

She was still skinny, but she had filled out some, her hips dipping slightly where her belt was buckled around her waist. She was a warrior, through and through; there was nothing decorative about her, not the slightest embellishment to be seen, no shining jewels adorned her attire and caught his eye. Her hair was no nonsense, pulled right back from her face but loose against her neck, emphasising her high cheekbones and the softness of her chin. Her dark, watchful eyes flitted back and forth constantly, never missing anything. Yes, Gendry decided, Arya was beautiful, but she was also as strong as any of the warriors in Winterfell. 

With a sigh, Gendry looked down at the workbench piled high with Dragonglass blades he knew he should be counting and winced. How much time had passed while he was thinking about Arya? He had _work_ to do. 

No, it wouldn't do to think about Arya, to listen to the words spoken by the men in the forges. Though much had changed, Gendry was still a bastard who couldn't read, and Arya was still a highborn of a noble house. 

He looked over to a workbench on the other side of the forge, the home of all the designs for the weapons and moulds, and he saw the small square of parchment Arya had given him. The drawing of the spear had been basic and rushed, but he understood the design, understood what it was that Arya wanted him to make for her, _why_ she wanted it made.

_Blue eyes. Rotting flesh. Gnarled hands grabbing at his furs. Desperate breaths catching on animalistic snarls. The wind howling in Gendry's ears. Pain in one of his calves as one of them bit down into his flesh. He brought his hammer down on it's head, but it's body didn't stop thrashing. A shriek like he had never heard echoing across the valley as the dragon burnt the hordes. The smell of old, rotting flesh._

Gendry pulled himself back from his memories of the Dead with a jolt, drawing in hasty breaths.

He closed his eyes, desperately pushing the images away, and placed his hands on the workbench to steady himself. 

Gendry dreaded the prospect of facing the White Walkers again. Cold, icy fear creeped into his veins at the idea. He didn't _want_ to fight, he wanted to go _home._

_If you don't fight, there might not be any home to go back to._

Gendry's breath caught in his throat, edging on a sob, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. 

_Do you even have a true home? You were just as much a nobody in King's Landing as you are here in Winterfell. You've always been alone._

The pressure that had been haphazardly placed on Gendry, the pressure to forge weapons out of a material that he didn't truly understand, and in quantities large enough for multiple armies, in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers, all while the Dead lurked just beyond the horizon, suddenly seemed to reach a climax, and in that moment it proved too much for Gendry. He hadn't been sleeping right, hadn't been eating right or taking care of himself, as he worked feverishly day and night to reach what felt like the unreachable. 

He pulled away, and scrubbed his filthy hands across his face. He needed a walk, something to take his mind off the dark thoughts that had begun to reside in the deepest parts of his consciousness. He needed a _break._

But Gendry couldn't rest, not while he knew how much work had to be done, not when every passing second spent idle was another Dragonglass weapon he could have made, a weapon that could have protected someone, a weapon that could have saved someone's life. 

He walked over and picked up Arya's drawing, and shook his head. 

But this weapon, he couldn't make. 

Arya was a warrior, that was true. Still, she was just so _small._ He imagined Arya, facing down White Walkers, killing as many as she could before she quickly became overrun like he had beyond The Wall. He saw her spear splintering, her eyes going wide with fear, her scream of terror as she disappeared beneath a horde of White Walkers, and he felt his heart rate begin to speed up again. 

No, out of all the people that Gendry didn't want to die, Arya was the one that _had_ to survive the Long Night. And as far as he could tell, the only way anyone could survive is if they were far away. Gendry wanted to protect Arya, he always had, and in his mind he viewed not making her a weapon as the ultimate safeguard, as it might force her to not fight, to not be killed. That was how his mind rationalised his reluctance to make Arya's weapon, he was _protecting_ her.

He steadied himself, and breathed deeply through his nose. He still had work to do. 

He began counting knives again.

\--

 

Arya could smell another blizzard coming on the air, and the nervous energy around Winterfell had quickly adhered itself to her, following her around like a stray dog. 

All day, she had been striding aimlessly around Winterfell, the Godswood and the battlements. She didn't feel like practising her knife throwing, and she had shot enough arrows to last her a lifetime. She itched for something to do, but with Jon and Sansa in a war meeting with Brienne, there was no one around for her to bother. 

_You could go talk to Gendry._

Arya smirked inwardly at the thought of Gendry. No, he was too busy to sit around and entertain Arya. Bran said the Dead were almost at The Wall, they needed as much forged dragonglass as they could. Besides, some strange part of her was almost nervous to go near the forges, at the idea of him seeing her. On the occasions she did pass the forges, her feet sped her past as fast as they could, barely leaving her with enough time to smile at him before she had left his sight. What was the _matter_ with her?

At that very moment, Arya's eyes landed on Podrick, sitting by himself at a bench placed near one of the soup kitchens. He had long ago discarded his favourite red leather doublet in favour of some warmer Northern armour. In the months he had been at Winterfell, his hair had grown longer, and he had grown some stubble along his chin, and in that moment Arya decided he was quite handsome. 

She silently approached him from behind, and when she was close enough she shoved him good-naturedly. Podrick startled and turned to face her with wide eyes, and despite herself she chuckled, sitting down next to him when he shifted over to make room for her. She made sure to leave space between them. 

They sat in comfortable silence, and Arya considered the boy next to her. She remembered seeing him with Lady Brienne many years ago, when Brienne had tried to take Arya into her protection. She had paid him no interest then, but now she considered him one of the only friends she had made since she had returned to Winterfell. She'd heard, of course, the rumours about him, the rumours that seemed to arrive the same time that Tyrion Lannister did. Podrick had mentioned he had squired for The Imp numerous times, and she knew the gossip had likely arisen from Lord Tyrion himself, whether they be accidental or not. She wondered how true they were. Podrick seemed to be unbothered by them, happily finishing his soup in relative silence. 

Arya took a deep breath, looking hard at the boy next to her. 

"Heard you've got a magic cock."

Podrick violently choked, and she laughed, laughed harder than she had in a long time. 

He looked over at her, his eyes wide and his cheeks growing overwhelmingly red, and her laugh devolved into a cackle, drawing the attention of many people in the courtyard.

"Arya... please.. I don't- where did you.." Podrick winced, his voice painfully raw. 

"Your friend Lord Tyrion has some colourful things to say about you, Podrick Payne," Arya remarked, allowing her laughter to die somewhat.

Podrick sighed deeply, his face still flushed as he looked down at his boots. 

"Lord Tyrion has a penchant for divulging more than he should when it is of little consequence to himself," Podrick mumbled carefully, his voice hitching with his growing embarrassment. Arya observed him quietly, her humour disappearing. 

"Well?" Arya asked, "Is it true?"

Podrick's eyes widened at the ground before he looked up at her, his growing panic colouring the air. 

"...No?"

There it was, the tell tale hitch in Podrick's voice, the twitch of his nose, his eyes briefly darting to the right. 

_A lie. A sad little lie._

Arya would have known he was lying with her eyes closed. She tilted her head slightly, pointedly ignoring the itch in her fingers for a stick. 

"You don't sound so sure."

Arya hadn't thought it was possible for his cheeks to become any redder, for his eyes to get any wider. He began stumbling over his words, on the verge of rambling, and Arya broke into peals of laughter again. 

"I'm only _joking_ with you Podrick, it's okay," Arya said in between breaths, and Podrick visibly deflated in relief. 

She stood, adjusting her coat and clapping him good-naturedly on the shoulder. 

"Care to spar? It's been a while since we last practised," Arya didn't look at him as she spoke, her attention had been caught by Gendry over at the forges across the courtyard. His back was turned to her. She took him in for a moment, committing as much detail to memory as she could, before she looked over at Podrick again.

Podrick bobbed his head and slowly stood, his eyes still fixed on the ground. 

Arya could feel his hesitation, feel his embarrassment still residing in his chest, and she felt a stab of guilt for her teasing. 

"Podrick?" she asked carefully, tipping her head forward as she tried to meet his eye. 

"Sorry, My Lady," he murmured in apology, finally looking up at her, and Arya felt the same stab in her chest at the familiar nickname. "I've been practising my footwork like you said I should, I might be able to last a bit longer against you this time," he announced proudly, his face breaking into a wide smile, much of his embarrassment already ebbing away. 

"You need to stop calling me that, Podrick," Arya chided as she took Needle from her belt. "But I'll take you up on that challenge. Let's see about that footwork now."

He grinned winningly at her, nodding enthusiastically as he followed her out of the gates to the open fields, where many others were already sparring and assisting in building the wooden moat. 

They found an empty space near the Northwestern Walls, and Arya spun to face Podrick, her muscles immediately pulling her into a neutral fighting stance out of habit alone. Podrick stretched his arm out before adopting the same stance he always had, the same as Lady Brienne, and he quickly lunged at her, trying to catch her by surprise. She easily evaded, swinging Needle around to his neck before he quickly countered it. Podrick staggered, losing his balance, but Arya let him regain his footing as she shifted back into her stance. He knew where he went wrong, she didn't need to knock him down. 

"Watch your _feet_ Podrick, Seven Hells."

He winced and readjusted, quickly taking up his stance again. 

This time, Arya struck first, Needle whipping through the air and catching the sunlight. He successfully deflected Needle, and attempted to sweep his sword at her vulnerable side, before she evaded again, parrying his sword stroke with minimal difficulty. He stumbled back then, and Arya followed him, Needle clashing against Podrick's sword again and again as Podrick quickly assumed the defensive, trying to ward off her barrage of attacks. He had always struggled fighting against Arya, simply because her fighting style was too different to what he was used to, and before Arya, Podrick had never fought someone left handed. He had improved enough with Brienne that he could succeed in most fights with ease, but against Arya he stood no chance. 

He swept wide, trying to catch her by surprise, but she quickly bent backward, allowing his sword to sweep over her, leaving him open. She quickly uprighted herself, then lunged Needle forward, right next to Podrick's neck into the air. 

He stopped and grinned, and she chuckled as she took a step back. 

"Again."

Podrick nodded, his eyes lighting up with the challenge. 

 

\--

Arya had been right about the approaching blizzard. Arya and Podrick had sparred for only an hour before the winds began picking up, and fat snowflakes began falling from the sky like icy tears. The two had quickly called it a day and sought cover inside the walls, parting ways somewhere along the way. 

That was how Arya ended up in her chambers, trying to brush out the tangles the wind had left in her hair as she sat in front of her hearth, trying to rid her body of the ice the beginnings of the blizzard had left. She had hastily pulled her gloves off and tossed them somewhere behind her so she could properly attempt to run her fingers through the tangles that were scourging her hair.

_This would be far easier using that damn mirror._

Arya turned in her chair to look at the mirror Sansa had placed there almost a month ago. 

_Before Littlefinger had died, Sansa had come knocking on Arya's door, her normally cold eyes alight with excitement as she held a bundle out to Arya. She also carried a large mirror under her arm, large enough that Arya would be able to see her full reflection in it. Arya took the mirror from Sansa first, the far heavier of the two, and placed it on her bed, confused by Sansa's sudden appearance._

_"I made you something," Sansa declared once Arya's door was closed, her excitement barely concealed as she held the package out to Arya again._

_"A present?" Arya asked incredulously, not yet taking the package from Sansa._

_Sansa nodded her head as confirmation, smiling wickedly down at Arya. "Take it."_

_Arya slowly took it from her, holding it gently in her hands as she looked up at her sister deploringly. "Why did you make me something? You truly didn't need to."_

_"I know," Sansa told her, holding her head up high, "but I made it for you anyway because I wanted to, Arya."_

_Arya huffed and looked down at the package. It was wrapped in some type of soft brown paper, and whatever was inside was bulky in Arya's hands. Carefully, Arya pulled the paper back to reveal soft grey furs. She pulled whatever it was from the package altogether and looked hard at what it was that she was holding._

_"What is it?" Arya asked, trying not to sound too confused._

_"It's a cloak," Sansa clarified, picking up the mirror from Arya's bed and placing it in the corner of her chambers to be used._

_Arya turned it over in her hands and looked at Sansa questioningly._

_"Where's the rest of it?" Arya asked, her words slow as her puzzlement affected her speech. The cloak Sansa had made for her was incredibly fine, and Sansa's stitching was still as perfect as Arya remembered. But the cloak itself was different to anything Arya had ever seen. It was held together by laced bindings that crossed diagonally above the breast, and seemed to be intended to be worn across her chest, shoulders and back, rather than simply along the back like a normal cloak. Sansa had left a hole for Arya's right arm, and had sewn in a dark strip of leather underneath the chest to sit comfortably against her neck to protect it from the weather._

_"I made it so you could move in it," Sansa explained, gesturing towards the cloak. "The shape of it allows the free, unrestricted use of your sword arm, so you'll be able to swing your sword as much as your heart desires. I've triple layered it and lined it with fur, so it's a little more rigid but it won't get in your way all the time and still keep you warm."_

_Arya didn't know what to say. For years, she had hated her older sister, who taunted her and called her names. Over the years, Arya hadn't thought much of Sansa, yet now her sister stood in front of her, and Arya felt her heart twist, and she didn't mind the feeling._

_"Thankyou," Arya murmured, her eyes lingering on the cloak in her hands before drifting up to her sister. Sansa smiled softly in return and gestured towards the mirror._

_"I know you don't really care what you look like, but you should try it on and take a look at yourself. I want to make sure it fits right."_

_Sansa's words stalled Arya in her tracks, and some of her happiness disappeared. She felt that ugly feeling rise in her chest, that sharp stabbing pain that she hadn't felt in years. She used to feel it when Sansa and Jeyne Poole would taunt her for her looks, when she would look in the mirror and see her reflection._

_"Why do you think I don't care what I look like?" There was an acidity in Arya's voice that she hadn't used in years, a bitterness she had always seemed to reserve for moments like these. She looked up at Sansa, with her soft features and bright eyes, and she remembered the jealousy she used to feel for her older sister. Yes, that's what that burning sensation was in her chest._

_Jealousy and bitterness._

_The happiness was swept clean from Sansa's face. Now she looked uncomfortable as she shifted her stance, her hands folding in front of her, as if to protect herself._

_"It's just... I know you've never liked acting like a Lady, or looking like one, and that's fine.." Sansa trailed off, and she winced as she attempted to talk but found no words._

_"But what?" Arya felt it, the coldness seeping into her heart and tainting her words. For a moment, in her growing anger, she wondered what it would be like to take Sansa's face and wear it, to finally be as beautiful as Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. She remembered now, why it was that she used to hate her sister._

_Sansa shook her head and didn't say anymore, suddenly not meeting Arya's eye._

_"You think because I'm not pretty, because I don't look like everyone else, I shouldn't care what I look like?" Arya questioned, and she felt the emotions leave her voice out of habit. In an instant, Arya was unreadable, her walls closing off any emotions she might have felt. She was playing the Game again, her eyes never leaving Sansa's face as she waited for the lie she knew was coming._

_Sansa looked at Arya finally, and her once pretty face was marred by her discomfort and shock._

_"I didn't say that," Sansa tried, her voice rising defensively._

_"But you did," Arya murmured passively, taking a step closer to Sansa, "many times." Sansa's eyes widened, and she felt something close to fear spark in the air. Arya took a step closer, refusing to back down now._

_"In fact, you used to take great pleasure in reminding me of how ugly I am," Arya reminded her. Sansa opened her mouth to defend herself, but Arya swiftly cut her off._

_"Am I wrong, Sansa?"_

_Arya dropped the cloak onto the chair by the hearth and let her arms fall freely at her sides. When Sansa said nothing, Arya's head tilted, and her arms folded behind her back._

_"It used to make you feel better about yourself, knowing you were prettier than me, prettier than I was ever going to be. What was it again, that name you and Jeyne Poole always used to call me?"_

_She saw it in Sansa's eyes, the recognition. Sansa remembered the name, just as well as Arya did, but still she said nothing. Arya knew she should probably stop. They had to focus on Littlefinger and his plans, they had to plan on the Winter ahead. They didn't have the time to act like children again. But through the walls Arya had barricaded herself behind, she realised she didn't want to stop. She wanted to hurt Sansa, hurt her as much as Sansa once hurt her._

_"Horseface you used to call me," Arya continued, taking another step towards Sansa, who now took a step away. "Horseface Arya. You say I never cared about my looks? How could I not when you always used to remind me of them?"_

_Sansa shook her head again. Her fear had been steadily growing, what was once a spark was now Wildfire, burning the air itself. But now something else coloured the space between the two women._

_Sadness. Sadness, grief and pain._

_"I was a child," Sansa murmured._

_"So was I," Arya replied._

Arya closed her eyes and sighed, looking away from the mirror. 

Sansa had left not long after that without another word, and Arya had sat in her chamber, refusing to look in the mirror or put on the cloak Sansa had made for her. Eventually, she had properly inspected the cloak, saw the _effort_ Sansa had put into the cloak, and tears gradually made their way into Arya's eyes. She found her way to Sansa's chambers not long after that and apologised, wearing Sansa's cloak. 

She hadn't worn any other cloaks since. 

But Arya never did look at herself in the mirror. 

Arya realised in that moment, with her tangled hair clumped in her hands, that she hadn't looked at herself in a mirror since she had escaped King's Landing. She had changed, grown into a woman, all the while not knowing what she looked like.

She had spied her reflection a chance few times, mostly in the reflections of rivers, wells and the waters lapping against Ragman Harbour. But she had never stopped to properly inspect herself, there had never been any time. Even in the time Arya had been back at Winterfell, and in the month the mirror had sat in Arya's chambers gathering dust, the simplicity of looking at herself had never occurred. 

Slowly, she rose from her chair by the hearth, her hair long forgotten. Arya glanced over her shoulder to ensure her chamber door was locked, then she slowly crossed the room towards the mirror, gazing into it properly for the first time. 

The first thing she noticed was her hair. Not only was it far less tangled than she had anticipated, but it was far darker than she remembered. Her hair must have darkened so gradually over the years that she hadn't noticed it until that moment. 

Arya tilted her head, moving it around so she could see her face from all angles. Her face hadn't changed much, but now there was a faint dusting of freckles along the bridge of her nose where before there had been none.

Her father had always told her that she looked exactly like his sister, Lyanna, but Arya had never believed him. Lyanna was said to be a true northern beauty, who had been stunning enough to win the heart of the king, while Arya had always been Horseface Arya. But now, Arya supposed in certain lights, if she squinted, she might not be as ugly as Sansa use to tell her she was.

Where before, Arya had viewed her face as ugly, now she viewed it as plainly average. There was nothing exceptional about it, and there was nothing that caught her attention. 

In the back of her mind, some quiet voice wondered what Gendry thought of her appearance, and her cheeks felt hotter at the thought of Gendry thinking about her. 

Still moving her head around, she tilted her head up, and a scar on her chin caught her attention. Arya took a step closer and narrowed her eyes at the scar, trying to remember how she got it. She must have received it in Braavos, she couldn't remember any other time she had split her chin open to leave a scar like that. Maybe during her final encounter with the Waif?

No, she remembered now. A memory stirred of the months where she didn't have her sight, and she remembered The Waif cracking her in the face, and the pain in her chin as she collided face first with the ground. She remembered her chin had been scabbed over for the week following the incident. Yes, that must have been it. 

She wondered what other scars she had accumulated over the years without her knowledge. 

A bold idea sprung into Arya's mind then, and it surprised her enough that it almost forced a laugh out of her. 

Glancing back at the door again, making sure it was still locked, Arya began removing her clothes. 

She started with her cloak, carefully pulling at the leather laces until it fell open and cascaded to the floor in a heap around her ankles. She stepped out of it, glancing again at her reflection, before she unbuckled her belt, carefully placing it on her bed alongside the Catspaw Dagger and Needle. Arya realised as she undid her waist band and tossed it somewhere behind her, that she was _nervous,_ but why? It was her body, she had lived in it for eighteen years. Why should she fear it, or view it with trepidation? 

Arya's hands had begun to shake by the time she began unlacing her leather tunic, leaving her in nothing but her undershirt, necktie, pants and boots. She toed off her boots first and kicked them away towards the growing pile of clothing on her floor, then awkwardly bent around to pull the woollen socks off her feet. The stone floors in her chamber were cool against her feet, and goosebumps immediately began rising up her spine at the feeling. She easily tugged off her necktie and let it fall to the floor.

Arya took a moment to look at herself, and already she could see the changes in her body. Her arms and shoulders were stronger than they had been as a child after years of fighting. Her breasts, which she had largely ignored ever since they had first appeared at some point in the Riverlands, pressed up against her undershirt and gave her a decidedly feminine figure that shocked her. She knew she had the body of a woman now, yet still, inspecting it properly for the first time still surprised her. 

In a bold move, Arya tugged her pants down and stepped out of them, then quickly pulled her undershirt up over her head, leaving her completely bare.

Arya glanced up at the mirror almost shyly, and finally looked at her naked body in it's entirety. Immediately, her eyes caught on the scars that now adorned her torso. These, she had seen. While changing the bandages on her wounds from The Waif, she would occasionally inspect the wounds themselves, but by the time the scabs had fallen off she had lost all interest altogether. But now she realised the true extent of the wounds Arya had collected over the years. 

Her arms and shoulders were dotted with discolourations that were once deep scrapes that had healed patchily. There were a few faded scars around her calves and knees from tree branches and falls on the Kingsroad. Just above Arya's right knee was a clear bite mark, a gift left from a dog in Braavos when it attacked her in the streets while she was blind. There were a few burn scars circling her forearms from her first attempts at building fires while she was travelling with The Hound, who had refused to build the fires himself. 

But of course, the largest and newest scars were the ones left from The Waif, which still hadn't turned white, instead remaining a deep pink against her pale skin. The Waif had stabbed her four times in the gut with a dagger, leaving behind multiple small, puckered scars that from a distance almost looks like moles. There was also the two large gashes that Lady Crane had carefully stitched together, one just below her ribcage, the other travelling along her right side in a nasty curve, both of which she received during her final encounter with The Waif as the other woman had blindly swung her dagger through the darkness trying to ward Arya away. She remembered the pain and winced, poking inquisitively at one of the pucked scars on her belly. Arya was never pretty, but if she had any chance before, it had been obliterated by the scars that now covered her body.

Lady Crane had carefully mentioned that the placement of the stab wounds were incredibly unfortunate, as they would have come very close, if not damaged, Arya's womb. Lady Crane had gently revealed to Arya that wounds like that might affect her ability to have children in the future. After The Waif stabbed her, Arya's monthly bleeding had hurt far more than it once had, it ached deep in her belly underneath the scars, and Arya knew that something inside her, deep beneath the scars on the surface, something inside her had been damaged. She never did care about having children, about becoming a mother. Nothing about becoming a mother remotely interested Arya, but knowing that her choice in the matter might have been taken away from her hurt her just as much as The Waif's blade. 

The Waif had always been smart. If she couldn't kill Arya, she would make damn sure Arya couldn't continue her bloodline. 

Arya closed her eyes. That was enough for today. 

She turned away from the mirror, not wanting to see any more, and picked up her undershirt, slowly slipping it over her head. 

Almost in a daze, Arya walked over to her bed and retreated beneath the covers. She didn't want to think anymore. 

Her eyes drifted shut, and she allowed the howling wind outside her window to sing her to sleep.

But she didn't sleep long, as a loud clamour outside her window stirred her from her rest. It was getting late in day, but the sun was yet to set against the horizon. Something was happening down in the courtyard. 

Arya quickly dressed, and laced her cloak over her chest while she strode out of her chambers, following the noise. 

Before Arya could reach the courtyard, which by now was covered in fresh snow from the growing blizzard, she spotted Sansa striding towards the Great Hall with Lord Royce following right behind her. 

"Where's Jon? What's happening?" Arya asked, falling into step beside Sansa. Sansa stopped outside the Great Hall, but Lord Royce continued inside. Sansa was in her element, her chin held high and her hands behind her back, truly everything a Lady of Winterfell should be. But her eyes darted back and forth uncharacteristically. Something was bothering her, something had _unnerved_ her.

"Jon is returning from Last Hearth with the Umbers, he should be back within the hour" Sansa replied, clearly distracted. 

"Sansa, what's happened?"

Sansa sighed, steeling herself as she finally looked at Arya. 

"Jaime Lannister just appeared in Winterfell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;))))))))))))))
> 
> While this being written, the working title for this chapter was just "ANGST" lol.
> 
> ALSO, it's one of my favourite headcanons that Arya's signature half coat thing was made by Sansa for Arya.
> 
> This is the first chapter that i've written where it's completely new and hasn't been taken from the show. But as i've said before, season 8 is v v imperfect, and should have been drawn out far longer than what it was to properly explore the story. There wasn't enough room for Gendrya to GROW, there wasn't enough time for ANY of the characters to have quiet moments and moments of reflection. D&D tried to tell me that these characters faced the equivalent of the apocalypse and they just accepted it like it was just a change in the weather? Not only is that poor writing, its also led to an incredibly rushed plot, and has revealed D&D's complete misunderstanding, or dismissal, of human nature itself. Tragic. D&D has forced my hand on this one. Again, thankyou all so much for your kind words, patience, encouragement and kudos. I would have stopped writing this long ago if I didn't get such a positive response from you guys. I hope to do this story justice, because I think we ALL deserve a little closure after that absolute let down of a finale. 
> 
> And i've said it once, and I'll write another end note rant about it again, but ARYA AND PODRICK SHOULD HAVE BEEN FRIENDS.


	11. The Queen's Justice

The moment Sansa uttered the words, trepidation dripping from every syllable, Arya seized up, something dark and unknown grabbing hold of her. 

Arya strode away, ignoring Sansa's calls as she waded through the small crowd that had began growing outside the Great Hall. They were to wait for Jon to return from Last Hearth, until then Jaime Lannister had been locked in the kennels, guarded by six guards at all times until Jon returned. So that was where Arya went. 

The walls of Winterfell guarded the courtyard from much of the blizzard's wrath, but heavy, wet snow still blew into the courtyard over the battlements and stuck in Arya's hair, and an icy wind immediately made her eyes and nose run. Arya didn't know what she was doing, why she was approaching the kennels to confront Jaime Lannister, her feet guiding her of their own accord. But something inside her heart twisted with malcontent, something she hadn't felt in months stirred in her veins with malignant intentions. She had never been able to name it, she could only describe it as a fierce desire to protect her family, protect herself, no matter the cost. Arya's hand found the Catspaw Dagger at her hip as she entered the kennels, finally escaping the howling wind and growing darkness of the blizzard. 

Sansa had told Arya about Ramsey Bolton's fate, about the hounds that once lived in these very kennels, but they had long since been released. They were too wild, too vicious to be tamed by anyone other than Ramsey, and had no place in Winterfell when their master was finally killed. Now, the kennels were empty, except for the very end one, which to Arya held a beast far more dangerous than any hound trained by Ramsey Bolton. The kennel held a caged lion, far from home, and Arya approached it carefully, despite the violence pulsing beneath her skin. 

The guards stood at attention as she approached, blocking her view of Jaime Lannister. Arya sighed, glaring up at the guards and allowing her emotions to drop from her voice. 

"Leave us," she commanded, attempting to channel Sansa in the calmness of her voice. The guards glanced at eachother before bowing their heads and retreating, leaving Jaime at Arya's mercy. 

Jaime was far away from the cage doors, pressed up against the walls and gazing up at her with uncertainty.

Arya could tell, even from a distance, that Jaime Lannister was not quite the Golden Lion he once was. No, Jaime Lannister had aged, far more than she had expected. His once golden hair had darkened to a muddy blond, a rough beard now covered his sharp jaw, and gold glimmered where his sword hand used to be. Jaime Lannister was still handsome, but his face was now marked by fine lines of age, and his eyes were weary from the years. 

Arya gazed down at him on the floor, her expression unreadable, and Jaime's unease grew into discomfort, but no golden words passed his lips. He looked back at her in silence, before he looked away, awkwardly shifting his legs. Arya tilted her head as she realised Jaime didn't recognise her, but how could he? When Arya had lived in King's Landing, she had never seen Jaime, and she barely resembled Sansa who he would have been more accustomed with. 

"Do you know who I am?" Arya asked slowly, taking a step towards him. 

Jaime peered up at her again, his eyes narrowing at her question, but he didn't say anything. Arya took another step towards him, entering the light from one of the torches, and recognition finally stirred in his features. Jaime didn't know Arya Stark, but he was a smart man. He saw the pointed chin, the dark eyes and hard mouth of the woman before him and he recognised the Stark features. The woman before him looked like Ned Stark, but also bore a striking resemblance to his sister, Lyanna, whom Jaime had met on a scarce few occasions. That was enough for Jaime to finally realise who it was that stood before him. 

"You're... You're Arya Stark," Jaime murmured in disbelief, and a chill ran down Arya's spine. "You're still alive?" he asked, his voice hiking in shocking revelation, and a vicious amusement overtook Arya. 

"No thanks to you and your sister," Arya replied, something dangerous creeping into her words. She was close enough now to see the horror that had twisted Jaime's face, to feel his anxiety weighing down the air itself. 

"I looked for you," he began, but something caught in his throat as his eyes took her in. "The Kingsguard _looked_ for you, all throughout King's Landing, there was no way you could have escaped."

"But escape I did," Arya said simply, never taking her eyes off of the man in front of her, and she took another step so she was right in front of the bars of his cage. The torch behind her made her shadow grow long, encompassing Jaime in it's darkness. "And now, you are my house's prisoner."

"It wouldn't be the first time," he chuckled, his snide amusement cutting through the tension in the air. "Many years ago, your elder brother took me prisoner, and your mother released me in exchange for you and your sister."

"But that didn't happen, did it?" Arya snapped, her emotions leaking into her voice for a moment before she pushed them back down again. She raised her non sword hand up to the bars and glared down at him, her sword hand still poised on her dagger. "My sister remained in King's Landing, didn't she? And I was never there to begin with. You lied to my mother, my family, just so you could reunite with your own wretched family."

Jaime's uncertainty was back, and Arya let her emotions go, let her anger leak through her barricades as she glared down at the man whose family had all but ruined hers. 

"But you'll never have that chance again, not while I'm here." Arya murmured acidly. "Everyone knows that the Lannisters always pay their debts, and you truly owe my family, Jaime Lannister. Winter has arrived, and the Dead have arrived with it, but the Starks will endure the Winter as we always have. No one will be able to hear the lion roaring during the Long Night, only the howling of wolves in the darkness, but I'm going to make sure that debt is paid in full before the Dead tear out that golden tongue of yours."

_"Arya."_

Arya turned to find Jon standing just inside the entrance of the kennels, his dark hair almost white from the snow as he glared at Arya. The guards Arya had dismissed stood anxiously behind him, and Arya sighed. She walked towards him, her hands slipping behind her back. 

"Everyone's assembled in the Great Hall, I'll meet you there soon," Jon mumbled stoically, his gaze drifting behind her towards Jaime. 

"We can't trust him-"

 _"Leave it, Arya."_ Jon reprimanded her sternly, finally looking down at her, and Arya was surprised to find that his words stung, and she winced involuntarily. His eyes softened somewhat and he sighed. 

"Go to the Great Hall, Arya. He's to be put on trial for his part in the deaths of our family, and Dany's. I'll escort him there shortly."

When Arya didn't move, he reached out and squeezed her arm gently. _"Go,"_ he pleaded softly, lightly pushing her towards the Great Hall, and Arya sighed. When had she ever been able to disregard what Jon said?

She reached up and squeezed his hand before striding out of the kennels, not looking at the guards as she passed them. The blizzard had worsened while she was in the kennels, and she broke into a jog as she crossed the courtyard to escape the storm's wrath.

By the time she returned to the Great Hall, Sansa and Bran were already seated at the high table, and Daenarys was seated at the center. Two empty chairs had been placed next to Daenarys, presumably for Jon and herself, but instead Arya lingered towards the back walls. She didn't think it was right for her to be seated at the front of the court when she wasn't truly a lady. She had very little knowledge of the politics of the court, had never even sat at the high table, made any effort to lead Winterfell like Sansa had, and had never sat through any proceedings like this. It wouldn't be right for her to seat herself next to Jon, so she stayed back, choosing instead to watch but not participate, as she so often did. 

The anxious muttering inside the Hall was cut short as the main doors were flung open, and Jon entered. Although he technically no longer held the title of King in the North after he bent the knee to Daenarys, many Northerners still bowed their head to him as he strode past and took his seat at the high table. He ran a hand through his dark hair, dislodging the remnants of the blizzard, and looked over at Sansa reassuringly, before he nodded at Daenarys, who had been silently watching him the entire time. 

Daenarys looked forward, and regarded the court with an intensity Arya was sure Winterfell hadn't witnessed since her father had travelled South. 

"Bring him in," Daenarys commanded, and the six guards from the kennels quickly ushered Jaime in, who caught her eye for a moment as he entered before he stopped in front of the high table. She noticed Brienne of Tarth shift in her seat at the lower table, reserved for the other high lords and ladies of the court. Podrick stood behind her seat, who smiled carefully at her across the room, and Arya nodded back at him before her attention was stolen by Daenarys' addressal of the court.

"Thankyou, everyone, for gathering in the Great Hall on such short notice," Daenarys began, looking about the court but refusing to look at Jaime, as if the mere sight of him angered her. "I know that during such times of war and strain, we are all under an immense amount of pressure. But even in times of conflict, we need to ensure justice is carried out. We cannot allow our morals to become clouded when faced with injustice, regardless of the pressure of war."

Arya sensed someone making their way through the crowd towards her, but she paid them no attention. They stopped next to her, and she recognised him by his stance alone. She'd recognise Gendry's presence anywhere. He leant down to whisper to her, and she ignored the way her heart began to speed up. 

"Never seen the Kingslayer up close before," Gendry murmured, his eyes trained forward to focus on Jaime as he fidgeted at the center of the Hall. "Only ever seen him in that Golden Twat armour riding around King's Landing like the King himself."

"He's a lot older than I thought he was," Arya replied just as quietly, and Gendry snorted in reponse. She closed her eyes and took a breath, trying to forget her earlier fury. She didn't want to be angry around Gendry. She'd spent far too much time away from him to not enjoy his presence. She had missed him, that quiet reassurance that always seemed to calm her, whether it be the makeshift prison yard in Harrenhal, or the Brotherhood Cave; he never needed to say anything to help calm her. No one other than her family had ever been capable of doing that. 

"As many of us here are aware, the man standing before you is Jaime Lannister, _The Kingslayer."_ Daenarys continued, her voice taking on a fiery quality. "Sister of Cersei Lannister, the enemy of all in the North, and opposer to my rightful claim to the Iron Throne."

"How do you reckon he wipes his arse with a golden hand like that-" Gendry began but Arya quickly shushed him, her own amusement growing. Gendry knew how upsetting this situation would be for Arya, how much anger she had for the Lannisters, he had heard her recite her list every night for almost an entire year, and he was doing his best to comfort her, in his own way. Despite everything, Arya appreciated the man next to her, who after everything, still went out of his way to make her smile. She had to physically stop herself from looking up at him, to gaze at the face she had dreamt about for _years,_ but her eyes were trained on Jaime Lannister, who was growing more and more anxious as Daenarys continued talking. 

The Dragon Queen now addressed Jaime directly, her voice was calm, but Arya could see the tension pulling her body taught, the frustration that knotted her hands into fists. Daenarys Targaryen was holding herself back, and Arya wondered for a moment what Daenarys Targaryen would do when she _wasn't_ holding back, what type of destruction she would wreck upon her enemies. But no, she didn't think The Dragon Queen would ever do that. 

"When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat, who watched as his blood poured onto the floor," Arya glanced across the High Table, saw Jon shift in his seat at her words, looking at her with an expression she didn't quite understand, but Daenarys continued as her words became harsher and harsher. 

"He told me other stories as well. About all the things we would do to that man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp."

Jaime shifted then, his eyes growing wide at the open threat. Arya wondered what kind of welcome he had expected, what kind of intentions he may have had for travelling to Winterfell alone. But The Dragon Queen cut off her wonderings with a resigned sigh, adjusting in her seat as she attempted to disperse some of the tension that was holding her body. 

"Your sister pledged to send her army North," Daenarys announced, her voice edging into weariness. "I don't see any army, only one man. It appears as though your sister has lied to me."

"She lied to me as well," Jaime replied, glancing about the room nervously, before his eyes returned to Daenarys. "She never had any intention of sending her army North. She intends to allow the Dead to scatter your forces, minimising the threat you pose against her. She has Euron Greyjoy's fleet and 20,000 fresh troops. The Golden Company from Essos-"

"And why should we believe anything you tell us?" Sansa cut Jaime off icily, and Arya noticed the way Tyrion Lannister immediately looked over at Sansa as her voice carried across the room as if it was destined to. Sansa stood from her seat, brushing the front of her dress of any creases, before she openly addressed Daenarys.

"We cannot trust this man, Your Grace. He attacked my father on the streets, he tried to destroy my house and my family, the same as he did yours," Sansa's gaze landed on Jaime, and he met her piercing gaze easily. "Men like Jaime Lannister do not change."

"And I supposed you're expecting an apology?" Jaime asked, still holding Sansa's gaze. "We were at _war._ Everything I did, I did for my house and my family. I'd do it all again-"

_"The things we do for love."_

All eyes landed on Bran, who had spoken the words with an intensity Arya hadn't heard from him since they had reunited. Bran regarded Jaime thoughtfully, as if he was considering the man before him, and Arya didn't miss the way that Jaime seemed to squirm where he stood, the fear that briefly flitted across her face under Bran's scrutiny. Arya wondered why that was. 

With a sigh, Sansa disregarded her younger brother's words and returned her attention to Jaime.

"There was no war when you attacked my Father, Eddard Stark, in the streets of King's Landing without provocation," Sansa continued, Bran's comment all but forgotten, "it was _your actions_ that partially led to my House's involvement in The War of The Five Kings."

Jaime shook his head, and Arya could have sworn she felt _guilt_ briefly paint the air, but no, that couldn't be right.

"That was many years ago, My Lady, before I truly understood the consequences of obeying such orders. I've always fought for the living, which is the unfortunate reason I was forced to kill your Father," Jaime declared, looking straight at Daenarys. "I'm sure you're aware of your Father's intentions for King's Landing, just as I am aware of Cersei's intentions for you and your armies, just as I am aware of my family's involvement in the Red Wedding." 

Many people in the room murmured in discontent at the mention of the Red Wedding, and Sansa slowly seated herself, her own pain at the mention of the Red Wedding silencing her. Many Northerners lost many friends and family members at the occasion, and it was unlikely the massacre would be forgotten for many years. But Jaime disregarded that, still looking at Daenarys imploringly, whose face remained stony. 

"I promised to fight for the living, and I intend to keep that promise. This goes beyond House loyalty," Jaime declared, glancing back at Brienne, his voice twisting with a hidden meaning that Arya didn't quite understand, but it seemed to surprise Brienne into blinking rapidly as she looked back at him. "I humbly ask that you do not judge me for the actions, nor the intentions, of my family, a sentiment I'm sure you share yourself, I only wish to serve the realm the only way I know how." Jaime's voice was unwavering, and despite her hatred for the man, Arya couldn't help but admire him. There was no lie in his words, Arya had been paying close attention to make sure. He stood in front of a court of men and women that would sooner see him executed before they trusted him, alone and weaponless, and did not ask for forgiveness, only understanding. 

For the first time that Arya knew of, Daenarys seemed to be speechless, her face still stony, but her wide amethyst eyes revealing her tumultuous emotions. So Jon spoke for her. 

"If we cannot judge you for the actions of your family, then there is no excuse for your own actions," Jon's voice cut through the tension that was slowly rising in the room, commanding the attention of all even without standing from his seat. 

"You didn't just attack our Father in the streets of King's Landing. You also killed your own cousin, Alton Lannister, as well as Torrhen Karstark, in the Stark war camp where you were held prisoner," Jon announced, his voice going steely as he continued, "when you returned to King's Landing, you did not uphold your promise to Catelyn Stark and return my sister home. Instead, you allowed her to stay in the Capital, be harrassed and abused by King Joffrey, and be forced to marry Lord Tyrion Lannister against her will."

Arya noticed Tyrion shifting uncomfortably in his seat, looking like he wanted to say something, but was quickly silenced by a look from Lord Varys, who Arya had yet to hear speak since his arrival at Winterfell. 

"You assisted in the siege of Riverrun, leading to The Blackfish's death. You also assisted in the Sack of Highgarden, weakening Queen Daenarys' army and killing one of her closest allies, Lady Olenna Tyrell. You also attempted to kill Queen Daenarys and her dragon at the Battle of The Goldroad. Am I missing anything, Ser Jaime?" Jon asked, still seated as he looked down at Jaime, who still stood stoically despite Jon's recount of his actions. 

To Arya's surprise, Brienne slowly stood from her seat, ushering Podrick out of the way as she strode to the center of the Great Hall, placing herself between Jaime and those seated at the High Table. 

"My Lord, My Lady, My Queen," Brienne began, her head bowing just slightly, before she uprighted herself and continued. 

"You don't know me, but I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honor. I was his captor once. But when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me, and lost his hand because of it," Arya had never heard Brienne's voice waver before, becoming vulnerable as she uttered Jaime's name, but she continued regardless, now directly addressing Sansa. 

"Without him, My Lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and bring you home because he'd sworn an oath to your mother," Brienne then turned to Jon, who regarded her words with polite interest. "As for Ser Jaime's other actions, I cannot speak for them. But Ser Jaime did not send Lady Sansa back to Winterfell upon his return as by the time he had returned, Lady Catelyn and Lord Robb were already dead. Ser Jaime deemed it safer for Lady Sansa to stay in the capital because as far as he knew, the rest of her family were gone or unable to protect her."

"After the death of King Joffrey, Ser Jaime tasked me with finding and protecting Lady Sansa upon her escape from King's Landing, as he was unable to do so himself due to his duty to the Kingsguard. Ser Jaime stood by his oath, and now your sister is safe again in Winterfell because of it."

Jon nodded respectfully at her words, looking like he was about to say something, but Sansa began speaking for him, her cool voice overriding Jon's. 

"You vouch for him?" she asked, her voice no longer as harsh as it was before as she addressed Brienne. 

"I do," Brienne announced with a nod of her head, and Arya noticed a few members of the Court shifting uncomfortably at her words. Gendry himself shifted next to her, but didn't say anything. 

"And you would fight beside him?" Sansa asked, and Brienne stood tall, her shoulders pushing back with pride and determination. 

"I would."

Sansa considered Brienne for a moment, nodding slightly as her eyes softened. 

"I trust you with my life, and if you trust him with your life that is good enough for me." Sansa glanced across to Daenarys and Jon, her voice becoming strong again. 

"Perhaps we should let Ser Jaime stay," Sansa proposed, and Jon's eyebrows went skyward at her words. 

"You're proposing that we let him stay, unpunished, regardless of his crimes and the threat he poses against us?" Daenarys asked in disbelief, her words mirroring Arya's own thoughts. She had thought Sansa was _smarter_ than to allow Jaime Lannister to go free. 

"I never said unpunished," Sansa reasoned, her eyes returning to Jaime. "Ser Jaime has great experience commanding men in battle, he would be a valuable asset to the Northern Armies, and your own, when The White Walkers breach The Wall. In the event he survives, then he shall face proper justice for his past crimes against our Houses. Once the War is over, and the Iron Throne is yours, you may do with him as you will, Your Grace. Until then, he is more valuable to us alive than dead."

Daenarys considered Sansa's words, before she turned to Jon. 

"And what does the Warden of the North have to say?" Daenarys asked, and Jon sighed wearily. 

"We need every man we can get, Your Grace," Jon replied, "but I do not believe it wise to allow Jaime free access to Winterfell, to roam as he pleases. I do not trust him enough to allow him that," Jon concluded, fixing Jaime with an icy glare that rivalled Sansa's. 

Daenarys nodded, standing from her seat. 

"Very well," she announced after a moment. Jaime opened his mouth to speak, but Daenarys cut him off. 

"Jaime Lannister, you have not been pardoned, nor forgiven for your past crimes. Though I give you permission to stay at Winterfell for the time being, you shall remain under constant supervision." Daenarys turned to Brienne then. "As you have vouched for him, you shall be responsible for the surveillance of Ser Jaime."

Brienne stood, her head bowed as Daenarys continued. 

"Where he goes, you shall go. Every word he speaks shall become your own, and you will be his constant shadow. He will not leave Winterfell, and any ravens he may attempt to send shall be shot down. Should Ser Jaime break our limited trust, you will be held responsible for his actions."

"I understand, Your Grace," Brienne responded, her head still bowed. 

"Ser Jaime is to come to no harm during his stay in Winterfell. Should anyone attempt to harm him, they shall be brought before their Queen to answer for obstructing the Queen's justice," Daenarys' announced to the Court, her voice unwavering despite the restlessness that now plagued the room. "Once the Second War For The Dawn is won, and our victory carries us to King's Landing, Ser Jaime Lannister shall be properly trialled and punished for his crimes for all the realm to see, and justice shall be served. Until then, I beg for your patience and your understanding in these difficult times."

With a nod of her head, Daenarys signalled for Jaime's sword to be returned to him, and Jon stood from his seat, quickly followed by Sansa and the rest of the Court. Daenarys then quickly felt, followed quickly by her advisors, and the Hall steadily began to clear, but Arya didn't move, and neither did Gendry. 

Arya watched at the Kingslayer buckled his sword to his belt and left the room, followed closely by Brienne, who avoided her eye as she left. 

"Well that was interesting," Gendry mused, uncrossing his arms as he looked down at Arya. She didn't say anything, too caught up in her thoughts and memories to reply. He noticed this, and his eyebrows furrowed in concern, tilting his head as he tried to meet her eyes. 

"Are you alright?" he asked carefully, not willing to push her more than she was willing. Arya sighed deeply and stood up straight, no longer leaning against the wall, and shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm not so sure," she replied cryptically, her eyes focusing and unfocusing. "I'm not so sure what it is that I'm feeling."

Gendry moved so he was infront of her, leaning down slightly as he continued trying to meet her eyes.

"Need to talk about it?" he pushed, but didn't shove. For as long as he could remember, Arya would only share her feelings when she was ready, when they were bothering her enough that if she didn't talk about them she'd start screaming. He didn't expect her to share her feelings and thoughts, but he wanted to offer anyway. She winced, her hand finding Needle, and she adjusted. Whatever emotion it was that she was feeling was suddenly wiped clean from her face, and her walls came up as easily as they did all those years ago, when they were both still children. 

"Made my weapon yet?" Arya asked, her eyes twinkling mischeviously as they finally met his. If Gendry hadn't seen her a mere few moments ago, he wouldn't have known something was bothering her. But then again, she always did keep things to herself, always hid behind her walls as often as she could. So he flowed with it, allowed himself to follow her change in tone and matched it, smirking down at her. 

"You think I've had time to make something like that?" He asked, feeling his face pull into a familiar smile. She smirked back at him, and it wasn't fair how _outrageously attractive_ it was. 

She stepped forward into his space and got up on her toes so she was right near his face. 

_"Then make time,"_ she suggested, her eyebrows quirked, before she pulled away and followed the crowd out of the Great Hall. He watched her go, and it took everything in him to not melt down into a puddle. 

He leant back onto the wall again, a smile still gracing his face, before he saw Lord Brandon still seated in his chair contraption behind the High Table, gazing at him strangely from across the Hall. Gendry winced and turned away, followed the stragglers out of the Hall, hoping Arya's brother hadn't just seen their interaction. But some small voice in the back of his head knew that Bran had seen him with Arya, and his gut twisted in mortification.


	12. Growing Shadows

When news of the wall falling reached Winterfell, Arya had been enjoying a moment of quiet with Sansa. 

But the moment Jon had entered, his eyes wide with fear, Arya knew the uneasy peace that had once blanketed Winterfell had finally been yanked away, exposing it to the bitter winds of winter. But what surprised Arya was the quietness that had overtaken her home, the silent desperation that resided in every room, the resignation that afflicted all who lived within the walls. Many knew they were living their final days within the Winterfell walls. 

They were supposed to have more _time._ Arya still had so much left to do, so much left to say. 

Sansa and Jon were constantly in some sort of war council meeting, and Arya had quietly begun attending every now and again, simply to take her mind off of things. Arya knew she wasn't exactly welcome at the meetings: she was no powerful Lord or Lady, no great strategist or commander, nor had she ever been in a battle, but who would dare turn her away? 

Despite her earlier threats, she was too preoccupied to shadow Jaime Lannister as she had intended. Brienne was successfully keeping a strict eye on Jaime, but Arya couldn't bring herself to be too concerned about the man any more.

The blizzard that had overtaken Winterfell had been raging for nearly two weeks, and the snows now reached almost a third of the way up the walls of Winterfell. The days had grown darker, the nights longer, and all in Winterfell knew that the Long Night was approaching. But as Winter's wrath overtook the North, Arya grew restless. So without much thought or consideration behind the meaning of her actions, Arya regularly made her way to the forges to watch Gendry work. 

Gendry was busier than ever with the sudden hysteria gripping Winterfell. Many had already claimed their dragonglass weapons from the forges, but there was still the curved swords for the Dothraki, a couple thousand more arrow heads, and a few hundred more axes for the Northerners to be made.

But there was something itching at the back of her skull. Somewhere, deep down, where echoes of the girl she used to be still lived, Arya knew it was unlikely they would survive what was to come. She knew even though she had finally gotten her home back, finally gotten _him_ back, they were living on borrowed time.

But sometimes, he made it easy to forget that simple, inescapable fact.

Sometimes, he would smile so sweetly at her, unspoken words pushing against his teeth, and Arya would forget the things she had seen, the things she had done.

Regardless, they didn't speak. They didn't talk about _before_. In the quiet of the forge, when Arya would sometimes bring Gendry something to eat after he had been working all day, he would quietly watch her when he thought she wasn't paying attention. After her years in Braavos, Arya had grown used to watching others, and others watching her. Normally, it would have made her skin crawl, but Arya didn't mind the feeling of Gendry's eyes on her. 

And if she quietly adjusted so she could secretly watch him as well, that was no one's business but her own.

But she could feel his intentions, feel the desperation in his chest growing every day to ask where she had been all these years, to _understand_ her, but the words never passed his lips. He knew, just as well as she did, that if he began asking questions, she would ask questions of her own. 

_He's hiding something from me. He never used to do that._

The blizzard had eased somewhat the day Arya grew impatient with waiting for her weapon. All day, she had barely heard a word Sansa or Jon had said, her mind returning again and again to her weapon, and the blacksmith that was to craft it. 

And like many people in Winterfell, Daenarys had also begun to grow impatient with something, meaning many war councils were quickly dismissed or cut short. Arya frequently saw Daenarys' eyes darting feverishly across the battle plans as if she was trying to see a solution that wasn't there, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the furs she was still unaccustomed to wearing. On the exterior, Daenarys was still the powerful Queen that Arya had heard about across the Narrow Sea, but Arya could feel her emotions crumbling. Arya wondered if the Dragon Queen had ever experienced true defeat before. 

So when Daenarys unexpectedly dismissed the war council mid discussion of wall defences, Arya thought nothing of it as she quickly made her escape towards the forges. 

The forges were busier than usual, many taking opportunity of the sudden easing of the blizzard. It seemed as if all of Winterfell was milling about the courtyards and forges, but Arya was used to navigating her way through crowds without drawing attention. It was one of the first skills Arya had learned as No One. 

_The crack of The Waif's sparring stick against Arya's face. The cold rocks of Ragman's Harbour against Arya's hands as she blindly tried to navigate the streets. A Girl is No One. The sickly feeling of sliding on someone else's face for the first time. Warm water, stale bread and salt. Go between the ribs to get to the heart, don't miss. Lana, Beth, Cat of the Canals, Mercy, No One. Blood and poison, shadows and bones. Lady Crane's broken body lying dead on her floor._

_"On your knees? Or on your feet?"_

Arya blinked away the darkness clouding her vision, ignoring the Waif's face before her eyes as she brought her wrist up to her nose, wiping away blood that wasn't there. She didn't want to think about Braavos right now, she didn't _need_ to think about it ever again. Yet still, her thoughts continued to draw back to the faces she had taken, the faces she had worn, despite her best intentions. 

When finally she broke through the throngs of people into the forge, Arya quickly retreated so she could press her back to the fire warmed walls. Breathing deeply through her nose, Arya's eyes slid closed as she forced herself to think of something else, _anything_ else. She thought of her father, of Sansa and Jon, of Gendry somewhere deep within the forge. She thought of sweet bread, warm mead, the feeling of Nymeria's fur underneath her fingers. It helped, but not much. 

Arya wasn't in Braavos anymore, she was home. Eventually her brain would catch up and stop returning to darker, more desperate days. 

Taking one final deep breath, Arya banished all thoughts from her mind and drew away from the wall, striding deeper into the forge, her moment of weakness pushed away for the time being. 

As always, it was exceptionally easy to find Gendry amongst the smoke and fire of the forges. Arya wondered if he knew she would come looking for him. 

Normally, Arya tried her best to not focus on what Gendry looked like, or what he was wearing, simply because it distracted her from the task at hand. But today, Arya _wanted_ to be distracted, and Gendry wearing a loose fitting tunic that left his chest bare was as good a distraction as any. 

In the years passed, Arya had seen Gendry wearing far less than he currently was, and she had always pointedly paid little attention like the good highborn girl her mother raised. She'd been little more than a child at the time, and there was too much happening in the world for Arya to dwell on thoughts of Gendry not wearing enough clothes. Even as she had grown, and Arya had began to notice other boys her age, Gendry had always felt off limits in her thoughts and fantasies. 

_"You wouldn't be my family, you'd be M'lady."_

But Arya was a woman grown now, and the world was ending. If she wanted to observe and admire Gendry's looks, then she wasn't going to stop herself anymore. For all she knew, she might die in the next couple of days, or weeks, or months. What harm was it?

So Arya allowed herself to become transfixed by the movement of Gendry's strong arms, the sheen of sweat against his bare chest, the broadness of his shoulders and the handsome curve of his jaw. Arya had been watching Gendry for months, but never like _this._

She knew his hands were strong and sure, but she had never imagined what else they could do, what other magic they could create. She knew his arms were strong, but she didn't know what they would feel like wrapped around her. She wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers through his short cropped hair, and Arya imagined a great many things as she watched Gendry, because suddenly the possibilities were endless. 

Some time had passed by the time Gendry finally saw her, catching her gaze and momentarily smirking back at her, his eyebrows quirking at her in interest. But Arya didn't look away, not like she once would have, she didn't _want_ to look away. Gendry didn't turn away either, and Arya wondered what it was that he saw. 

But Arya's thoughts strayed as Gendry's face hardened when he remembered his current task. 

"Don't you have something better to do?" He asked, finally turning away. For a moment, he sounded almost exactly the same as he once did in Harrenhal. Oh yes, Arya remembered that voice, that tone that he always seemed to reserve for teasing her. Arya pushed the the giddiness rising up in her throat back down as quickly as possible. She had come her for a _reason,_ gods damn it. 

"Made my weapon yet?" 

Gendry huffed in sudden exasperation as he inspected the axe he had just completed, no longer making eye contact with her as he strode past her.

"I'll get around to it just as soon as I'm done making a few thousand of these," he replied haughtily, and Arya's mouth twitched with childish impatience as she snatched the axe from his hands.

"You should make mine first, and make sure it's stronger than this," Arya snarked back at Gendry, feigning disinterest as she glanced curtly over her shoulder at him as she began walking away. 

But then the air in Arya's lungs was pulled away as Gendry leant over her, yanking the axe from her hands and slamming it down into a workbench with a resounding thud. 

"It's strong enough," Gendry replied lowly, his face transforming into a wicked grin as he brushed past her again. 

Oh, Arya _liked_ that.

Arya followed closely behind him, subconsciously shadowing his steps as she watched his gait, thinking about those strong arms again and again, before her thoughts were abruptly silenced by Gendry's careful words. 

"It's going to be safer down in the crypts, you know," Gendry murmured, not making eye contact with Arya as he went back to his work. Something about the way he avoided her gaze suddenly, the way he deliberately began fiddling with knives to give his hands something to do, immediately alerted Arya. There was something behind those words, something he wasn't telling her, she _knew_ it.

She leant against one of the wooden supports and crossed her arms, allowing her emotions to drop and her voice to even out. What was he _thinking about?_

"Are you going to be in the crypts?" Arya asked after a small pause, her chin tilting up just so as Gendry continued to avoid looking at her. He quickly shook his head no, going silent in a way that was both familiar and incredibly annoying. 

"Because you're a _fighter,"_ Arya tried, leaning forward when Gendry finally, _finally,_ looked up at her again. 

"I've done my share," he retorted shakily, his brows knitted together, and whatever thoughts Arya might have previously had, they were immediately wiped from her mind. 

There was something there, in Gendry's voice, something she hadn't heard before, not in her dreams or otherwise. The faintest hitch deep in his chest, a quiet anxiety that he was bravely attempting to ignore. He had always been brave, her Gendry, and his disquiet left her rattled. He wasn't a man anymore, and she wasn't a woman; they were both children again, soldiers, _victims_ of a conflict far greater than they would ever be. They were both helpless, lost in the darkness of growing shadows that had long ago encased them. 

Arya understood now. Jon had told her about beyond The Wall.

"You've fought them?" She asked delicately, suppressing the sudden urge to step closer to him, to hang onto every syllable that left his mouth. She didn't fear death, she didn't fear pain, cold or knives, but in that moment she feared she might miss his voice and the words they carried, like a weary undertaker working late in the winter. How could something so small be so important to her? _When_ did that voice become so important to her?

"I did- some of them, only a few," Gendry began, but cut himself off as he cleared his throat. 

"How many?" Arya pushed where she probably shouldn't, her curiosity overtaking her earlier discontent despite her better judgement. 

_"A few,"_ he repeated, his voice dropping into an annoyed grumble, clearly wanting her to drop the subject, but she couldn't. This was _important._

"What were they like?" Arya asked, forcing her voice to quieten, her emotions to warp into warm empathy, rather than childish impatience. 

"Bad," Gendry replied, his voice impossibly quiet. "Really bad."

Despite her best intentions, that same snide impatience from years ago grabbed hold of her words and made them her own. 

_"Really bad?_ Arya repeated incredulously, walking around the work bench Gendry was standing at to stand directly in front of him. 

"Even an armourer's apprentice can do better than _"really bad"."_

Gendry sighed, ignoring her juvenile attempt at an insult as he steadied himself for the questions he knew Arya was about to hurl at him. 

"What do they look like? What do they smell like? How do they _move,_ how hard are they to kill?" Arya rambled, but maintained her cool disposition and level voice, never taking her eyes off the man in front of her. 

"Look," Gendry huffed in growing exasperation," I know you want to fight. And I know you're not afraid of murderers or rapers or... _or whatever else it is that you've seen,_ but this is _different, Arya._ This is- this is _Death._ You want to know what they're like? Death. That's what they're like." Gendry had slowly been getting closer and closer to her, and he was almost close enough for Arya to count his eyelashes. 

She looked him dead in the eye as she took a calculated step back, her hands finding the knives on the workbench before her. 

Finally, Arya understood, the final puzzle piece sliding into place like it was destined to. If Gendry didn't think she was a fighter, she'd simply have to show him. 

"I know Death," Arya murmured, her voice echoing like it once did in the House of Black and White, as she drew her arm back and slung one of the knives straight into one of the wooden support pillars across the courtyard, sticking right in the center. Gendry had instinctively dodged, as if he had expected the knife to be aimed at him, but a soft exhale left his lips loud enough for Arya to hear when he saw the knife across the courtyard. 

"He's got many faces," Arya continued, slinging another knife with ease. 

_Lana, Beth, Cat of the Canals, Mercy, No One. Arya Stark of Winterfell._

"I look foward to seeing this one." 

Another knife landed, forming a perfect triangle in the wooden support, and Gendry let out a breathy, surprised chuckle, thoroughly impressed. 

She strode around him, watching his reaction and committing it to memory as she inched closer to him and entered his line of view. 

"You're going to start working on my weapon _tonight,"_ Arya told him, pleased when he quickly nodded his head. 

"I'll get right on it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys !!
> 
> Sorry for the lack of updates recently. I done got really sick and had to go to hospital for a while, and I all but forgot about this fic until just then. Sorry again for the radio silence and the lack of chapter updates, hope this chapter makes up for it !!
> 
> This chapter is also called Give Me Arya's Emotions Back You Bastards, or alternatively I Would Die For Joe Dempsie. I've highkey been in love with Joe Dempsie since Skins so I'll take any opportunity to swoon over that man omg. 
> 
> And i've said this once, and I'll Say It Again, Season 8 needed more Angst.


	13. The Nights To Come

Barely a week passed before Gendry found Arya. 

It was too cold outside for her to practise now, her hands shook too viciously inside her fur gloves for her to properly aim. But there were plenty of places away from the harsh winds and bitter snows that she could practise, away from the prying eyes that had followed her ever since she had come back home. The crypts, with their expansive halls and quiet hearths, was as good as any. Arya could be near Father, he could see how much she had improved since the last time he had watched her, a lifetime ago. 

And that was where Gendry found her. 

Arya had heard his approach, felt his curiosity sweeten the air. She'd recognise his footsteps anywhere, know his shadow against the wall even in darkness. She didn't know how long she had been practising her archery, but Arya had been counting the seconds since Gendry had quietly entered her small hideaway, watching her from the shadows. He didn't think she knew of his presence, and she warmed underneath his gaze, regardless of the torches she stood near for warmth and light. 

"Does the dead frighten you, Gendry?" Arya asked the shadows, focusing her attention on the target before her. "Is that why you're hiding?"

She heard his affronted scoff behind her and his approaching footsteps, and Arya shot one final arrow before turning to face him, to see the spear in his hands. 

"That for me?" Arya's voice had turned reverent at the sight of the weapon. Her eyes darted between the weapon and the man holding it, a smile that matched Gendry's own growing on her face. 

He nodded proudly, offering it to her without a word. 

She didn't take her eyes off of it as she haphazardly placed her bow somewhere behind her. Arya slowly took the spear from him, testing it's weight in her hands before she gave it an experimental spin, watching one of the ends dance through the air. 

From the corner of Arya's eye, she could see Gendry nervously shifting on his feet, watching her with growing anxiety as she continued to test her new weapon. 

"Do you like the balance?" Gendry blurted, his anxiety pulling at his voice. "When you split it into it's two parts, the blades try to tip down because they don't have the counterweight from the other end, so I had to account for that when I was-" Gendry's voice was edging into a ramble, but he stopped abruptly when Arya gave the spear an experimental twist, splitting it into it's two parts. 

"This'll work," Arya hummed softly. "I see what you mean about the balance," Arya continued as she instinctively flipped the blades in her hands so they faced the ground.

Gendry didn't say anything as he watched her, but she could feel a question burning in the air, something he was stopping himself from saying. She stopped her ministrations as she finally looked at him again, seeing the pained expression on his face. 

She knew this moment would come, when he couldn't hold his questions back anymore. 

"Where did you learn to use weapons like this?" 

Arya's heart began to sink into her chest. How could she possibly explain something like that to him? The only person she had spoken to about this had been Sansa, but she hadn't revealed much, only enough to satisfy Sansa's curiosity. But how could she keep such a thing from Gendry, when he asked her so sincerely, looking at her as if she was a wounded, misunderstood animal?

Her hands tightened on the blades in her hands, shaking her head as she quickly joined them back together again. She wasn't ready for this, to be completely and utterly vulnerable. 

"Gendry-" she warned.

_"Where have you been all these years?"_

Arya felt something she hadn't felt in a long time. A coldness taking root deep in her chest and constricting her heart. 

It was _fear._ Arya was scared if she told him where she had been, what she had done, too much would change. That Gendry would _fear_ her. She saw the abyss before her, felt the cold winds burning her skin. Would Gendry catch her if she fell, revealing herself in a way she never had before?

"East." 

In the quiet of the crypts, Arya's small voice echoed like thunder. 

"I went East... across the Narrow Sea to Essos."

"Essos," Gendry repeated, his surprise causing his voice to hike in tone. "Why in Seven Hells did you go to Essos?" Gendry sounded angry, but she could feel his confusion. He was just as unprepared for this as she was. 

"I didn't think there was anything left for me here," Arya whispered under her breath. She couldn't look at him. 

He didn't say anything for a moment, and the quiet of the crypts that had once been so comforting now left her feeling as if she too was dead. 

"But you came back anyway?" Gendry asked, taking a step closer. The quiet was bothering him as well. Arya nodded her head, still not looking at him.

"I realised I didn't belong there," Arya confided, her voice shaking just slightly. "The person I was becoming wasn't _me_ anymore. The people who I was with, the ones who trained me, wanted me to let go of something I physically couldn't." 

Arya didn't want to say anymore, but she felt the question Gendry was about to ask shift the quiet of the crypts into something far louder, far more unstable. Her answer was in her mouth before he could even ask the question. 

"What was it then? What couldn't you let go of?" He asked her desperately, and how could she ever deny him?

"My family." 

Arya finally looked up at him, the fear that had been plaguing her disappearing in an instant, because this was _familiar._ She was sure he felt it too. 

_I could be your family._

He held her gaze, his brows furrowed in thought. For the first time since they had reunited, Arya didn't know what he was thinking. 

"I thought you were dead," Gendry told her, his voice quiet, his eyes vulnerable beneath his still furrowed brows. There was _meaning_ in that voice, something he had yet to reveal warping his words and transforming his voice. Gendry's hand moved as if to touch her, to reassure himself she was real, but it quickly fell back down to his side. 

"I thought the same of you," Arya answered truthfully. She hadn't cried in a long time, but she felt the beginnings of tears push against her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away.

For a moment, Arya looked back at the eighteen years she had lived, and Arya saw that she had been surrounded by death her entire life. It had followed her steps like a haggard and decrepit dog, begging for more scraps. Her childhood had been leeched away, wrung out of her like poison was drawn from a wound. Death had taken everything from her. She had fought Death for so long, fought to survive, that she'd never had the chance to _live._ She realised in that moment just how much she had missed out on, how much she hadn't experienced. 

Arya looked at Gendry and wondered. She wondered unfathomable and unfamiliar thoughts. Fantasies encroached upon her mind like the tide, gentle, but pushing all the same. 

She knew the feeling of sliding a knife between a man's ribs, the exact angle necessary to reach the heart, yet she'd never felt the soft caress of a kiss against her lips. She could change her personality, her gait, her very face at will, but she'd never known what it was like to be with a man, to _truly_ be with a man. Arya knew anger, she knew vengeance, bitterness and hatred, but she didn't know where to begin in regards to _love._

Gendry looked at her with such immense honesty and sincerity, and Arya wondered if he would follow her into the abyss if she asked. 

There was still so much she didn't know. 

She turned away from Gendry, her thoughts threatening to overwhelm her. She busied her hands with her new weapon, continuing to familiarise herself with it's weight in her ample hands. 

"Since you have your weapon, and I now have one of my own, we should spar sometime," Arya decided, her voice becoming playful. She needed to stop _thinking._

"You want to spar with me?" Gendry questioned, his voice catching in surprise. Arya nodded in response, keeping her back to him. 

"It'll be good practise before..." Arya trailed off, but shook away the sickly dread that threatened to infect her again. "Before everything goes to shit."

Gendry laughed as he slowly circled her, eventually stopping before her. 

"I'd say I'm still quite stronger than you," Gendry warned her, but his growing smile encouraged Arya to take a step forward, then another. She was right in front of him now, close enough she could have counted the freckles dusting his cheeks, see the flickering torches reflecting off his widening eyes. 

"And I'd say I'm still far quicker than you."

They gazed at eachother then, no further words necessary. She saw that same spark in his eyes that she felt in her chest. His thoughts were the same as hers, their shared feelings colouring the air and making Arya's cheeks burn ever so slightly. Her eyes drifted from Gendry's eyes, down... down... 

Arya used to think she had Gendry's face memorised, every aspect of his features as familiar as her own. But Arya was surprised to realise that Gendry had a scarce smattering of freckles on his lips, something she had never noticed before. She'd never looked hard enough before. 

For a brief moment, Arya thought about leaning forward and pressing her mouth against his.

"Well, I guess it's decided then," Gendry said before he awkwardly cleared his throat. 

Arya took a step back, but he stayed in place, watching her every move. 

"I guess so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why oh WHY did i change this iconic gendrya scene you may ask. Despite how much I LOVE the scene and that entire episode, these babies banging doesn't really fit at this point in my fic? Since im drawing out the Long Night and postponing the night king attack, it doesnt exactly feel right for this scene to progress as it does in canon, as it would change the relationship dynamic too drastically before I want it to. So sorry if u feel dissappointed in the lack of sexy time in this chapter, I hope the angst makes up for it lmao.


	14. Scar Tissue

The nights had gradually began to grow longer and longer. The creeping shadows held onto the daylight like an illness, infecting even the once sunniest of places.

A month passed, two months, three months, and it was like the North was constantly gripped in a late twilight.

To Arya, it felt as if the world itself had stopped breathing. 

She stopped going to war council meetings and all but stopped her once happy routine of supper with Sansa, Bran and Jon. The days had died, the sun had abandoned them, and they had ran out of time. She couldn't sit around anymore, listening to the same information thrown at her again and again while the Dead gathered a scarce few days ride North of them. Bran assured everyone that the Night King had yet to advance beyond the Wall, as if he was waiting for something. They didn't have time anymore to try and guess what it was he was waiting for. 

So she threw herself into training again. She shot arrows until her fingers blistered inside her now threadbare gloves. She ran laps around the courtyards of Winterfell in the falling snow and darkness until she couldn't feel the cold anymore. She threw knives, axes, splintered shards of wood, anything that she could throw, into any target she could find. Arya worked herself to the point of exhaustion so she could collapse into her sheets, and endure a dreamless sleep, free of dead men and the ones she lost. Often, she would wake up in the same position she had fallen asleep in, the hearth long dead. 

The moment she woke, she began training again, rarely taking time to change, bathe or eat. She didn't have time anymore. 

There was too many she needed to protect now. 

And it hurt. It hurt knowing she wouldn't be able to save everyone. She had already lost so much, and she was about to lose even more. 

In Braavos, Arya used to count her cuts and scrapes, priding herself on her new scars. They proved she had lived another day. Now she looked down at her blistered hands and feet, her scraped up knees and face from falling in the snow in her exhaustion, and she didn't feel anything anymore. 

No One was slowly creeping back in again, and Arya partially welcomed the icy, emotionless state that seemed to constantly overtake her. It helped her think. It helped her forget about death. 

It hurt even more to stop seeing the people that were so important to her. She wasn't strong enough yet, not fast enough or skilled enough to protect them all. She had even stopped her visits to Gendry, which stung her more than words could express.

Somewhere deep down, Arya knew she should probably be spending time with them all. Sansa, Jon, Bran and Gendry. Brienne, Podrick, maybe even Theon and The Hound. They had so little time left, and Arya wished she could be with them all.

But still, she continued to isolate herself; to drag herself out into the cold again and again, with no source of comfort other than maybe, just _maybe_ , all this training might mean something in the end. 

It had been a long and bitter day for Arya. She'd been wearing the same clothes for almost a week, and she hadn't bathed in even longer. She couldn't remember the last time she had sat down and properly eaten something. She was tired, _so tired._

Arya was so exhausted in fact, that she didn't notice Sansa following her back to her chambers. She didn't notice Sansa slip in through the doorway before Arya could kick it closed. 

"Why are you doing this, Arya?" Sansa asked right as Arya fell face first into her sheets. Sansa's voice was sad, concerned, and sounded so much like Mother that Arya felt that same stabbing pain in her chest again. 

Arya didn't reply, lazily kicking her boots off as she crawled deeper into the furs of her bed, but stopped halfway when she got too tired. She felt soft hands then, deft fingers unlacing her cloak and pulling the furs over her decaying body. She hadn't been tucked into bed in years. 

"You can't keep doing this," Sansa murmured lowly as she adjusted the furs around Arya's chin. It wasn't Sansa anymore, it was Mother's voice speaking so softly she could barely hear it. "Why are you punishing yourself like this?"

_Mycah. Septa Mordane. Syrio Forel. Father. Yoren. Lommy. Robb. Mother. Rickon. Lady Crane. So many names she couldn't protect._

"It's fine, Mother," Arya mumbled groggily, her eyes opening just slightly to look up at her mother. Instead, she saw Sansa's wide eyes, her lips parted in surprise. For a moment, it looked like Sansa would get angry at her, but then Sansa saw the confusion painted on Arya's face, the fear in her glassy eyes when she realised her mother wasn't in the room, the pain that creased her mouth when she remembered their mother was long dead. Sansa slowly reached out and placed her palm flat against Arya's forehead, feeling the fever that was raging on Arya's skin and causing her to hear Catelyn Stark's voice instead of her sister's. 

"You've a terrible fever, Arya." Sansa's voice was tearing itself in concern, and Arya closed her eyes again as she lazily swatted at Sansa's hand. 

"...Iss fine," she slurred faintly, "needa sleep now."

_"This needs to stop,"_ Sansa warned, no room for argument in her voice. Arya ignored her as she felt Sansa's weight on the bed shift and leave, heard her rummaging around somewhere behind her. She felt something cool against her forehead and she sighed at the sensation. 

"You know this isn't going to help, killing yourself before the dead can even get here," Sansa reprimanded gently, her voice seizing in her throat as she looked down at her younger sister, her _only_ sister, who for years she had assumed to be dead, and the damage she had willingly inflicted upon herself. "You're worrying _everyone,_ you understand? Even Jon's noticed."

Arya scrunched her nose at Sansa's words, but winced when it pained her. Why did that hurt?

_Arya had been sprinting through the gods wood, running laps around the Heart Tree fast enough it was making her dizzy. She couldn't feel her toes anymore. In a moment of distraction, Arya had tripped on a tree root and crashed into the ground, the sharpness of the snow cutting through her gloves and grazing nearly the entire left side of her face. She had to keep going. She stumbled to her feet and began running again, ignoring the spots of blood in the snow._

That's right, Arya remembered now. But what had she been running from again? In the haze of her fever, Arya couldn't remember anymore. All she could think about was the softness of her furs, the ache in her limbs. 

Arya fell asleep not long after that without another word, and Sansa stayed by her side until the early hours of the morning. 

 

\--

Arya woke to a fully stoked hearth, something that hadn't occurred in weeks. Her fever had broke at some point during her sleep, but how long had that been?

There were voices outside her chamber door, voices she recognised as Sansa and Jon. Arya could feel Jon's concern through the door, his worry twisting his voice painfully. 

"... and she didn't say anything? You didn't ask?" Jon implored, and Arya could just imagine the tightness of his brow, the upset curve of his mouth. It was Arya's fault. 

"She's been unwell, Jon. She's _sick._ I'm sure she'll explain soon enough when she's ready," Sansa assured gently, her calm resolve contrasting Jon's unease. 

"Whenever that will be," Jon mumbled lowly. "She doesn't _talk_ to us anymore, and now she goes and does this to herself?"

_"She's scared,_ Jon. Scared shitless. She'll never admit it though, it's been the same since we were children."

Arya heard Jon's dejected sigh through the door, and Arya closed her eyes. She didn't want to hear anymore. 

Jon and Sansa's voices slowly drifted away as they left Arya to her rest, but their conversation lingered at the back of her mind like a splinter. How did it come to this?

Arya slowly rose from her bed, allowing her furs to fall away as she brought her wrists up to rub at her eyes. She hadn't felt this exhausted, this sore, since she lost her sight in Braavos. She shook the thought uneasily away and carefully swung her scarred legs to the cold stones of the floor. She rose unsteadily and made her way towards the hearth, ignoring the ache in every single bone of her body. There was a pot of water next to the hearth that wasn't there before, presumably left there by Sansa while Arya slept. 

In that moment, Arya was acutely aware of the fact that she _stank._

She hadn't smelt this bad since she had been travelling on the Kingsroad with Yoren, when she had been too afraid to bathe in case one of the men saw her. Arya scoffed at the memory, and gingerly placed the pot over the fire to heat up. She should get cleaned up, she'd been putting it off for long enough.

Arya quickly stripped down, dumping some clean rags in the pot with a hiss. The water was still icy cold, but Arya ignored it. 

She quickly washed, easily ignoring the way her teeth began to chatter from the icy water, the goosebumps that began to plague her skin. Arya was used to the cold. 

Arya wasn't sure what time it was, whether she had slept for days or only hours. It was always so dark now, always so cold. The blizzard Arya had been running in before seemed to have calmed somewhat, the wind no longer howling outside her chamber windows. 

She needed to _get out_ of this damn room. 

Carefully, Arya began dressing again, cursing under her breath when her shoulders twinged painfully as she pulled her cloak over her head. Carrying her threadbare gloves between her teeth, Arya buckled her belt around her waist as she walked towards the door, immediately feeling comforted by the familiar weight of Needle and the Catspaw dagger at her sides again. 

Slowly, silently, Arya pulled her door open, listening intently for any voices outside her chambers. 

Nothing. 

She gazed up and down the corridor, her eyes catching on every shadow, before she slowly strode out and pulled the door closed behind her. It wasn't often that Winterfell was this quiet, this empty and dark. Staying close to the walls, Arya urged herself forward, wrapping her arms around herself as she attempting to rid herself of the cold from her wash. 

Arya wasn't sure where her feet were taking her, but she gladly let them lead her. She didn't want to think for now, she didn't want to go anywhere really, she just wanted to stay moving, anything to take her mind off of everything. 

So she walked, walked until she came to the great hall. It was all but empty, except for one lone figure by one of the hearths, his face barely visible under all the furs someone had piled on him. 

"Bran?"

Her brother slowly turned his head to face her but didn't say a word. Recently, Bran was always gone somewhere, off far away while his body remained in Winterfell, but tonight was different for some reason. It had been a while since she had seen her brother's eyes look normal. 

With a sigh of resignation, Arya walked towards him with a shake of her head, her footsteps echoing strangely in the empty hall. 

"Did someone leave you here again and forget about you?'' Arya asked tiredly, huffing in annoyance when Bran nodded. This wasn't the first time this had happened. 

"Do you need help getting back to your chambers?"

"Thankyou."

Arya walked around Bran and grabbed hold of the back of his chair with practised ease, pushing him away from the fire with a grunt.

Ever since Bran had returned to Winterfell, it immediately became obvious he couldn't stay in his old room anymore. Bran's childhood chambers were up at the top of the Winterfell towers, right next to Sansa's chambers, and Hodor wasn't around anymore to carry Bran up all those stairs. Sansa had organised one of the stores near the kitchen to be cleaned out and a bed placed inside for Bran; the warmth of the kitchen stoves carried through the stone walls and heated up the room, eliminating the need for a hearth. It was only a short walk from the Great Hall. 

Arya went through the door first, taking one of the torches from the corridor inside to light up Bran's room. It always struck Arya how empty Bran kept his chambers, all that was inside was his bed and a chair with a few spare blankets next to the door. He had insisted he didn't need anything else.

Arya pushed her brother inside his room and closed the door, busying herself with lighting the two torches in the room so she could allow Bran to get out of his chair and into his bed himself. He always insisted on doing it himself. When Bran had settled, she made short work of pulling off his boots and covering his with his furs. As she stood, she noticed something she had never seen before. 

There beside Bran's bed, was a small dagger. Arya recognised it from her time as Lana at Ragman Harbour, it was a knife used by fishermen to clean and gut fish. Why did Bran have one of those?

"Whose knife is that?" Arya asked curiously, picking it up and giving it an experimental flick in her hands. Bran shifted so he could look at the blade, then slowly reached out to take it from Arya, staring at the knife the entire time. 

"Meera's," he murmured, his voice strange. Arya cocked her head curiously, her interest spiking. 

"The girl who helped you beyond the Wall?" Arya sat down on Bran's bed, watching his face as he held the knife in both of his hands. He nodded, turning the knife over in his hands. 

"She gave it to me, just in case," Bran continued, his voice distant. Arya felt it then, something so small she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been listening to her brother speak. The faintest change in the air, a stillness that hadn't been there before, a quietness that Arya hadn't expected to hear from Bran ever again. 

It was _sadness._ Sadness and regret. 

"I forgot to give it back before she left to go home."

In all the months Arya and Bran had returned home, not once had she sensed any emotion from him, so this slight moment of sadness was like an ocean that overcame Arya in an instant. 

"Do you miss her?" Arya asked, her voice lowering to match her brother's moment of heartache. He didn't respond for a moment, his eyes staying fixed on the blade, before he looked up at Arya, the sadness disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. 

"He's missed you," Bran announced, his voice suddenly chillingly level. "He's been worried about you."

Arya shook her head, ignoring Bran's sudden change in subject. If he wanted to avoid talking about someone, that was fine by Arya. She knew what silence and avoidance meant. 

"Jon will understand eventually, it's fine-"

"Not Jon," Bran cut her off, catching her by surprise. Arya looked down at him, dumbfounded. Bran hadn't spoken that quickly ever since he had returned to Winterfell. 

"Your blacksmith," he continued, as if it should be obvious. 

_"I thought you were dead."_

_"I thought the same of you."_

Gendry. 

Arya stood up abruptly, almost missing the faint smile on Bran's face. 

"Mind your own bloody business, Bran," Arya mumbled as she turned away. 

Right before Arya could childishly slam Bran's door shut, she heard him call out faintly. 

"He's been so worried he was going to come look for you-"

_Slam._

Arya quickly strode away, her hand finding Needle to steady herself. 

_Seven Hells, Bran._

\--

For the first time in a long time, Gendry was taking a break. 

Nearly all the weapons had been made, and there was going to be enough dragonglass left over to make maybe a few hundred more arrow heads. 

He took another deep gulp of his ale, his back to the forge furnaces as he faced the Winterfell courtyard. It had been a bitter few days, with the nasty blizzard that had been ravaging Winterfell and making it difficult to keep the forge furnaces lit, but Gendry finally felt that he was almost done. 

The wind had stopped, but the snow was still falling, silently drifting down and settling over Winterfell like a thick blanket, orange in the torchlight. Gendry didn't know if Winterfell had ever been this quiet, so empty, so _peaceful._

The quiet night was disturbed, however, by a sudden voice across the courtyard. Someone was talking angrily, loud enough that Gendry could pick out a colourful selection of curses and swears. He perked up when he recognised that familiar voice. 

Arya appeared then, holding onto Needle like her life depended on it, talking to herself and swearing like one of the lowest gutter rats from Fleabottom. 

"Those aren't very nice words, M'lady. Not very becoming of a highborn lady such as yourself," Gendry called out to her, feeling an easy grin start to pull at the corners of his mouth. 

Arya stopped in her tracks, peering across the courtyard in confusion before she spotted him. 

"Gendry?" She asked softly, her arms dropping to her side as she gazed over at him. Gendry rose slowly from his seat, ignoring the sudden shifting of the world beneath his feet. Maybe he had drank too much. Maybe Arya's sudden appearance, all rosy cheeked and angry as the snow clung to her dark hair, had thrown him so much he had become dizzy. Just like old times. 

He crossed the courtyard towards her, not noticing the sudden lack of warmth from the forge on his back. Stopping right in front of her, Gendry took a proper look at Arya for the first time in what felt like weeks. Her eyes were running from the cold, and her cheeks were flushed either from her anger or from the snow. There was a graze on her cheek that looked like it had happened recently. She looked thinner than he remembered, her eyes sunken in like she was sick. 

Maybe it was the ale drowning in his veins, or maybe he was intoxicated by the beautiful girl in front of him, but in a moment of complete awe, Gendry slowly reached out to touch her. He gently brought his hand up to cup her cheek, and when she didn't move away, he ran his thumb over her cheekbone, carefully avoiding the graze that was there. Arya's eyes were wide, but she still didn't pull away, watching him and waiting. 

Gendry knew that look. She had looked at him the same way when he had found her in the crypts to give her the weapon she had requested. She was looking at him as if she never wanted to look away, as if she _wanted_ him. But how could that be?

"Haven't seen you in a while," his voice was soft, worried the smallest sound might cause her to pull away. He'd _missed_ her. 

The moment the words left his lips, her nose scrunched up in disgust, and the moment was lost. 

"Gendry, you _stink_ like a bloody _tavern_ ," Arya chided, and Gendry dropped his hand as he tipped his head back with a sigh. "What have you been _drinking? Seven Hells."_

"You really shouldn't insult people that are bigger than you, you know," Gendry slurred as he tipped his head back down to look at Arya, who scoffed in return. "And since you're so interested, I have been _hard at work_ , I think I deserve an ale every once a while."

Arya grinned up at him, and Gendry decided in the soft torchlight, with the snow falling all around them and the silence pressing close to them in a soft embrace, that he was probably in love with Arya.

Arya, who had stood by him when no one else would, who didn't _care_ that he was a bastard, was still the same snarky, bitter girl that the world had cast out when she was far too young. But she had grown, she wasn't as impatient as she once was, her anger was no longer as heated, and she still watched him when she thought he didn't know. 

She shifted from foot to foot and looked down at her worn boots, her sword hand finding Needle again. 

"Sorry for avoiding you," Arya blurted like the words burned her, "I've had a lot to think about."

"What've you been thinking about?" Gendry's voice was rough with his recent realisation. He never wanted to stop looking at her. 

Arya shrugged, her nose scrunching up as she looked him in the eye again, her dark eyes shining in the torchlight. 

"The end of the world," she confided, her voice steady. 

Gendry considered her words, before slowly nodding. He shifted to her side before he put his arm around her shoulders, steadily directing her back to the forge. 

"You and me both. Ale?"

Arya's grin in return was as good an answer as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refuse to believe Bran no longer has emotions, I cannot believe he would do Meera that dirty. I refuse.


	15. Destination

With very little complaint, Arya greedily accepted the mug of ale Gendry offered her, drinking it down as if she was dying of thirst. He watched as she promptly finished it with a slight grimace, then held out the empty mug to him, her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the forges. 

"Another."

Gendry scoffed, easing the mug from her hands to go refill it. 

"Another _please_ ," he chided playfully as he turned his back to her to refill her mug. Her snort of amusement almost made him drop it. 

"Gendry, you are the last person that should be giving lectures on manners."

"And why's that?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at her. "Someone ought to tell you."

Arya grinned back at him wolfishly as she crossed her legs underneath her. 

"You've the worst manners of anyone I've ever met, and you're a fucking idiot," she responded easily, but there was no true malice behind her words, only familiarity. They had been so close once, bonding through playful banter barely disguised as insults. For a moment, Gendry forgot they weren't children anymore, their sole worry being the next meal and getting away from King's Landing, irritating each other simply to pass the time. 

Gendry didn't respond, only handed her ale back and sat across from her with a huff. Immediately, he wished he had sat next to her. But it was too late, Arya had already started talking again, rambling on about Sansa or something. But he didn't really hear her, only listening to the melody and cadence of her voice. He could probably fall asleep to the sound of it if he tried hard enough. Gods he had forgotten how much Arya could talk when she set her mind to it. 

_"Arry likes talking, doesn't stop really, especially when she's talking to you."_

Even all these years later, after everything that had happened, Hot Pie's words still rang true. 

Gendry smiled at the memory of a different time, and for the moment being, it was enough to make him forget about what was on the horizon. 

They stayed like that for what could have been hours, or maybe even days. Time passed differently when Gendry was with Arya, as if she pulled him from his gravity into her own; it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. 

Eventually, Arya rose to leave, waving Gendry away as he stood to follow her. 

"I grew up in these walls, Gendry. I don't need a personal escort to my room."

"I know, I know," Gendry muttered hastily, not taking his eyes off her. 

_Don't leave yet._

"I just thought it... it would be nice."

Arya stared back at him strangely, stalled for the moment. Gendry crossed his arms in front of him, suddenly uncertain. Somehow, it had sounded like some sort of _confession._ Gendry must be drunk, there was no other conceivable reason he was thinking and saying such things. 

_Please stay a little longer._

The moment stagnated, the air itself falling still, and Arya remained silent, watching Gendry watching her. 

Gendry opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ , when a piercing shriek rang through the stillness. The two jumped, and Arya's head swiveled back towards the castle. 

_"What in Seven Hells is that?"_ Gendry asked nervously, the hesitation from before long gone. Arya didn't answer, her hand gripping Needle tightly as she listened. 

Another shriek, this time it was rougher, more pained. _Scared._

"It's Bran," Arya murmured, a faint tremble in her voice before she sprinted back into the castle, Gendry stumbling as he attempted to keep up. 

\--

They'd always known the time would eventually come. The time when the sun wouldn't rise again, and the armies of the dead would finally descend upon Westeros like a great wave. Arya just thought they would have had more time. They were _supposed_ to have more time. 

Bran had been having one of his visions when he had started screaming, as scared as a cornered wild animal. It was actually Theon that found Bran first, running into Bran's makeshift room like a man possessed, searching for the cause of Bran's alarm. Sansa was the next to get to Bran, finally followed by Arya and Gendry. Arya rushed inside, throwing a terrified glance over her shoulder at Gendry, before she knelt down next to Bran's shaking body on the floor. 

"What happened?" Arya murmured to Sansa, who only shook her head. 

"Found 'im like this," Theon grumbled from the other side of the room, his voice shaking as badly as Bran's body. "Must have fallen out of his bed during one of his visions."

"Bran?" Arya asked softly, leading forward towards her brother's quaking body. His back was to them, his arms wrapped around his body so tight Arya was sure he was going to break his own ribs. "What did you see, Bran?"

He started shaking his head, his breaths becoming impossibly shallow. Gendry felt sick. 

"Where's Jon?" Arya finally turned away from her brother, her emotions were rising to the surface again and quickly becoming too much. Sansa shrugged unsteadily, still speechless, her fair face paler than Arya had ever seen it. 

"I'll go find him," Theon quickly stepped away, his eyes locked on Bran's back. 

"Find the _Maester_ first," Arya called after him before she returned to Bran. He was muttering something now, his terrified voice sounding so different to the apathetic, distant voice Arya was used to hearing. She leant forward, trying to hear what he was saying. 

_"...they're coming, they're coming, they're coming, they're coming."_

With a jolt, Arya fell backwards onto her arse, struggling to get away from Bran's words of doom. 

"What's he saying?" Sansa spoke finally, her voice surprisingly cool despite the situation. 

Arya looked back at her, her fear rising to the surface quicker than she thought possible. She looked then to Gendry, understanding dawning on his face. 

_They'd finally run out of time._

Shit. 

\--

"But _why_ have they waited this long to attack? What's different from yesterday, or the past five months?"

Compared to the clatter of outside, Sansa's voice was as calm and icy as ever. In the minutes after Bran's vision, the entirety of Winterfell had begun to implode. The air was thick and sickly with hysteria, it was almost enough to make Arya gag. Theon had gone completely silent, Jon's words were becoming more scattered by the minute, ane little Lady Mormont's voice had taken to tremoring as she spoke. Even Daenarys, the stoic Dragon Queen, had lines of fear creasing her porcelain skin. It was as if every living person within the walls of Winterfell had realised the true threat that lay beyond the horizon. 

But not Sansa. 

Sansa spoke as if she was discussing the grain reserves, or asking what was for breakfast. Arya couldn't sense the slightest hint of emotion from her sister. 

_Ever the Lady._

"The Army of The Dead hasn't moved a single step South since they broke through the Wall. Surely there has to be a reason they're moving now?"

The room was quiet other than the clatter outside the door and out in the courtyards. People were already rushing into the crypts, arguing about space; others were anxiously sharpening and resharpening their weapons. 

_There wasn't enough time._

"It was only a matter of time before the army began to advance, we all knew this day would eventually come," Jon's voice was uncharacteristically quiet, the usual gruffness replaces by a hush that was quickly beginning to unnerve Arya. 

She didn't want it to end this way, with her family terrified for their lives. _This wasn't why she returned._

"Will the defenses hold until dawn?" Daenarys finally spoke, her eyes roving over the battleplans again and again, searching for weaknesses. "The plan is solid and true, and there is enough in the reserves to sustain Winterfell for at least a month with heavy rationing, are we sure there isn't any more we can do?"

_"Oh my sweet Summer child. What do you know about fear?"_

Arya shuddered, pushing Old Nan's voice from her head. 

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

The room remained silent and Daenarys shifted uncomfortably on her feet, finally turning away from the plans to gaze about the people in the room. No, the War Council had been working these plans for almost six months, they'd long ago run out of ideas. 

"We maintain the original plan," Jon told her gently, his face softening just so. No one else had seen it, heard the tremor in his voice dissappear for a few precious moments, no one else except Arya. 

"These plans _will work._ They have to."

Arya closed her eyes, in the deafening silence of the War Council, and allowed her thoughts to stray to Gendry. Last she had seen him, he had been stumbling back to the forges, calling out to her over his shoulder that he would come find her later. 

Arya thought of blue eyes in the firelight, rough blacksmith hands, an easy smile, a steady, beating, _alive_ heart, and it was too much. She wrapped her arms around herself and almost started crying. 

She couldn't lose him, not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Yeah Gang, It's Almost Time.


End file.
